SIX CICNTURIES OF
ENG LISII LITERATURE
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VOLUMK II
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SIX CENTURIES OF
ENGLISH LITERATURE
Passages Selected from the Chief Writers
and Short Biographies
BY
RICHARD FERRAR PATTERSON
M. A, (Cantab.), D.Lilt.(Glas.)
jierlv b\)U)nititiun Hchotnr of SV. John's CW/V^v, (Ittmhr
and (lhailcs Oldhutn (University) tihakcspcarc Scholar
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VOLUME II
LYLY TO SHIRLEY
With Introductory Essay by
1'KTKR ALEXANDER, M.A.
(}i(ccn Mdrfftiret Lecture)" in Englis
(ildxtfwu I Infversily
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THE C;.RI',SHAM PUBLISHING COMPANY LTD,
66 CHANDOS sSTRKKT, COVKNT (JARDEN, LONDON
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CONTENTS
ri i
INTRODUCTION - - .. ..... - xiii
By PETER ALEXANDER, M.A.
JOHN LYLY - . - . . . ..-..j
From * ( Euphues " _...._. -3
From " Enclimkm ---------- 5
Bird Sontfs ----------&
Cupid and Camp as pe ---------. 8
GEORGE PKELE ......... 9
A Sonnet - - - - - - - 10
From " 'Jlie Araygncmcnt of Paris " 10
ScphcstiVs Song to her Child - - - - - - - 16
Duron's Description ot" Samcla ,..-,.- 17
The Shepherd's Wife's Sonjj; .----.- - xS
From " Dorastus and Fawnia " - i<)
Greene's Death - - - - - - - -21
JTI01VIAS LODGE ...--- - -3
From ** Hosalyndo: Euphucs' CJoldcn r^o.^acic Jl - - - 24
Rosulynde's Madrigal -.-...-- a(>
Montanus's Sonnet ... - ^7
Rowalyudc's Description - - - - 38
THOMAS NASH - - - - - . - - - - 39
Spring - ..---..- 30
A Lament in Time ot" Plague - ~ 3*
Vrom '* The Unfortunate Traveller " - 3^
'C'HIUSTOI'MIKR MARLOWE - 34
'1'lie Death of 7/enocrate - . - . - - 37
Helen -------- , ., - 38
The Death ot" Faustus .,-.. . . 3C)
Vrom "The Jew of Malta n .-......-- 41:
FVom " Hero and Leanclcr J> - - - 4 2
The Passionate Shepherd to his Love - - - - 47
v
- M ;.
'''
vi CONTENTS
THOMAS KYD -
The Spanish Tragic -
RICHARD HAKLUY'l
From *' Navigations, Voyages, Trallique!!, :nu
WILLIAM WARNER - - . ^
Albion's England -
THOMAS WATSON - - ^
Passionate Centuric of Love ..
ALEXANDER MONTCJOMKKIK - ^
OH" the Chcrrie and the Slae -
RICHARD HOOKER - ;,' } ,
Of the Lawcs of Ecclesiasticall Politic ' '
HENRY CONSTABLE -
Of his mistrisse: upon occasion O f h c r \valKmi; in a
To the Ladic Rich
,
Darnel us Sonf? * :() m<s O' a phenu
SIR EDWARD DYER - ., ., ^ l
My Mynde to me u Kinjfdoino is
ROBiaiT SOUTHWELL - ;';';
The Burning Babe - ;j
New Prince, New Ponipo
SAMUEf, DANIEL - - "^
Delia - - !T
'i i \
Sonj; from " 1 lyinenV Triumph (>
To the Ladic Margaret, (Vniutc; ;i)0 n\ ('nniluMl.ind " l "
From u A Defence of Uyme M ., t; *
SIR JOHN DAVIES - , <ri
From '* Nosce Tcipsiuu '* , n [\
From '* Orchestra *' - <j "
Hymns to Astraea -
Epigrammes .",,
KING JAMES VI AND ] B , s "*
Anc Sehort Treatise, C(uUeinit^. somc Kt-ulr, .tml i'aufrh, t b<- ( H,rt'ui
and Eschcwit in Scottis I> (iKr ,i r - - l ' M
From " A Countcrhlastc to Tobacct) " **'' ^
JOSEPH HALL - - . ., ^^
Satires - - - ^ * " '
THOMAS DELON1SY - ,. * ta >
From <c The Pleasant History '.fhonuw oi' U<Mttim; " l|1 *
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ., .. , - U " J
From <s Venus and Adoin:: *' , l : *'
From < Lucrece " - - ., J ' M)
Sonnets - - - * * * u
CONTENTS vil
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (continued) p.^
Tilaniu's Lullaby - - - - - - - - - -134
Balthazar's Song - - - - - - - - - -134
Feslc's Song - - - - - - - - - - -13 5
Ariel's Songs ..-_.... 135
Love's Labour's Lost -.--*--,- 136
A Midsummer-Night's "Dream ------, 137
Romeo and Juliet - - - - - - - - - -139
The Merchant of Venice - - - - - - - -1:40
Second Part of King Henry IV - - - - - - -141
Julius Ciesar - - - - - - - - - - -143
Hamlet .-..--.-... 144
Othello .--..--... 146
King Lear .-...-----. 147
Pericles ,,..--.-... 147
The Winter's Talc - 149
The Tempest --.--.---. 151
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA _---... 152
Arden of Fevcrsham his True and Lamentable Tragedy - 153
Sir Thomas More - - - - - - - - 157
JOHN FLORID ,..-.- J59
Montaigne's Essays - - - - - - - - - 160
JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD - 164
Res pice Fincm - - - - - - - - - - 164
THOMAS CAMPION ..-----.- 166
Hose-cheeked Laura, come - - - - - - - -"167
The peaceful western wind, - - - - - - - -167
Now winter nights enlarge ------- 168
Jack and Joan they think no ill .---..- 169
What then is love but mourning? ------- 170
Thrice toss these Oaken ashes in the air ------ 170
Her fair inflaming eyes - - - - - - - -171
Kind are her answers - - - - - - - - -172
When thon must home to shades of underground - 172
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow - 172
My sweetest Lesbia let us live and love - - - - - *73
The man ofliie upright - - ----- ^ 73
Whether men do laugh or weep - - - - - - - *74
SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING - - - 175
Aurora - - - - - ~ - * -
iVIIUlAEL DRAYTON - ...... (77
Idea, 6 1, ....... -170
To the Cambro-Britans and their Tlarpe, his Ballad of Agincourt - - 180
From*' Nimphidiu - - . - - 183
Polyolbton - - - - - - - - - - -184
Vor,. II, Au
viii CONTENTS
- - - "v
tSN
"
"
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER -
From f( Christ's Triumph after Death
From " Venus and Anchiscs
From " The Purple Island
1 i
FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. AIVIJANS , ,^ (>
Essays .....,., ,
From " The New Atlantis " - - - , () .
JOHN DAY -
From " The Parliament of Bees "
GEORGE CHAPMAN - - - , , t(( ,,
Homer's Iliads - - - ,
Homer's Odysseys ---,..
From " Bussy d'Ambous " . ,, , ,,
JOHN MARSTON --....
Antonio's Revenge - , ,\
From " The Insatiate Countess " -
From " What You Will" , "''J
THOMAS DEKKER -
Old Fortunatus -
The Gull's Hornbook -
Content -
Lullaby ----...
THOMAS HEYWOOD
From <c A Woman killed with Kindness "
Pack, Clouds, Away -
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLKTt'HKR
Song from " The Maid's Tra^dy " . ' '''* ''
From (< The Two Noble Kinsmen " ''*;!
Invocation to Sleep - m ' ^
From u The Queen of Corinth J> - - , '" |IJ
From (e The Nice Valour " - ''*'
Philaster; or, Love Lies a-BIccdin - - .". ' *
BENJAMIN JONSON - '''*"
From " Every Man in his Humour " , T> ' M)
From ff Volpone 3> (The Fox) - ''* <
Song. To Celia - - ' ,. -^
Chans' Triumph - -N7
An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, a Boy-uelm
Discoveries, De Shakespeare Nostrati
JOHN WEBSTER -
From '* The Duchess of Malfy "
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
* ^ >S
M *
J B
r/4
* *
CONTENTS ix
WILLTAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTIIORNDKN - 276
From " A Cypress Grove " - - - - - - -278
Madrigal: Sweet Rose, whcne ; is this Hue ....-- 379
Flowers of Sion, 5 -.--..--- 280
Madrigal: My Thoughts hold mortal Strife - 280
Sonnet ------------- 280
GEORGE WITHER ...... - 281
The Lover's Resolution -..------ 282
WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK ------ 284
Britannia's Pastorals - _...--.. 285
SIR HENRY WOT'FON - 287
On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia ------ 288
The Character of a Happy Life ------- 288
Upon the Death of Sir Albcrtus Morton's Wife - - - - 289
RICHARD CORBET - 289
Fairies Farewell - .-.--- 290
JOHN DONNE ..------- 292
The Sun Rising ---------- 294
Song: (Jo, and catch a falling star ------- 295
The Undertaking - ,...-..---.- 295
The Canonization --..----- - 296
SOUK: Sweetest love, I do not go - - 297
From the " Sermons ---------- 298
SIR THOMAS OVKRBURY ------- 301
From " Characters '--..------ 302
OWKN M^LLTHAM -......--.. 304
From tl Resolves "---.. 305
THOMAS MJDDLKTON .,.-.-..-- 306
From a The Ch "
PHILIP M'ASSINCJER .--.---- 315
From u A New Way to pay Old Debts " - - - - - - 3x6
From " The Picture " --...,-.--- 319
From " 'i'he Virgin Martyr " - - - - - - - 3^1
CYRIL TOURNKIJR -.....--- 323
From " The Revenger's Tragedy -------- 324
KOHKRT BURTON ---------- 325
1-Vom "The Anatomy of Melancholy" .----.- 326
LOUD HERBERT OF CHERBURY ------ 332
From the " Autobiography n -------- 333
JOHN' KARLK -----....-.- 337
From u Microoosmographie " .---- 337
x CONTENTS
JOHN SELDEN - ' ,M'
From " Table-Talk " - ,i|
WILLIAM PRYNNE - .H<
From (f Histrio-Mastk " - - - M'i
THOMAS RANDOLPH - ,t|K
From "The Muses' Lookim;-Gt;isse n - ,;f)
JOHN FORD ,ts.*,
From cc The Broken Heart " - - j v|
JAMES SHIRLEY - .ift
From (C The Lady of Pleasure " jf> !
A Dirge -.--.. . jh;;
APPENDIX .-..., lft ";
LIST OF AUTHORS - - - - . t st
LIST OF PLATES
Fticinp
v, (KROM TJUK BUST ON ins TOMB) - Frontispiece
SaAKKSPKARK's BIRTHI'LACK, STUATFORD-ON-AVON - - - - 116
Tun FIRST PACK OF Tins FIRST FOLIO (1623) OF " HAMLET " - - 126
Tni>; FIRST PACJK 01- Tim FOURTH QUARTO (1611) OF " HAMIJBT " - 144
Ki'.DUCHi) FACSIMIM-; SUOWINC; HAND D IN u SIR THOMAS Moms*' - 158
Jil'.N JONSON ----------- 252
SIR WALTER KALuitaz - - - 272
JOHN DONNK ---------- 292
INTRODUCTION
BY 1'KTUR ALEXANDER, M.A.
Qwrni Margiiivl; Lecturer in Kn^Ut'li, (ilas^ow University
lu the last: scene of his last play Shakespeare had an opportunity,
which was perhaps one of the attractions the subject had for him,
of reviewing the age in which, lie himself lived and worked: for
Henry VIII brings the story of the struggle between the descendants
of Kdward 111 begun in Richard It and continued through all its
vicissitudes in Henry IV, Henry V 9 Henry VI, and Richard III to
its triumphant conclusion in the glories of the poet's own day.
These are not indeed directly presented on the stage, but celebrated,
though with no breach of dramatic propriety, in a manner that allows
of the intermixture of a strong colouring of the poet's own private
feelings as an actor in the events he describes. When Cranmcr
christens the royal infant Elizabeth, \vc have foretold enthusiasti-
cally, it is true, but truthfully, for he is represented as divinely
inspired, her glorious future:
She shall be lov'd and fear'd; her own shall bless her;
1 Icr foes shake like a Held of beaten corn,
And Juintf their heads with sorrow; good grows with her*
lu her days every man shall oat in safety
Under his own vine what he plants; and sing
The merry son^s of peace to all his neighbours.
God shall he truly known; and those about her
From her shall read the perfect" ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
These line lines have sometimes been dismissed as mere sycophancy
unworthy of Shakespeare, but they were written at least; ten yours
after Elizabeth's death in the reign of a successor who did not love
to hear her praises, and there is no doubt they represent substantially
siil
x ; v INTRODUCTION
the views on this period of one of the most represent alive Knrjishnu'n
of his own as well as of all time.
In nothing was Shakespeare more representative of Kli/ubellun
England than in the Nationalism which, finds expre ision in tlii", pivi-;<>
of the dead Queen. The enthusiastic protestations by hi-; eontent
poraries of their loyalty have of ten, like his own words, been eensured
as flattery. Elizabeth was, of course, like all ruler:; belmv or MIUT,
the object of such abuse. It must be remembered, huuevrr, thai
the part the sovereign then played in ^overnment was si ill u \ny
personal one: the ruler was intimately involved in every uaiinusil
and constitutional dispute. lie now stands above and lc\<m<! all
such controversy. Different times and conditions dietale a, diHerem.
language, and references to the sovereign thai; mi<,ht turn be rightly
considered too personal and familiar could well in Kli/ahrth's time
be the honest expression of an ardent ami sincere patriotism. And
the Queen herself had by her wisdom and (inn conduct made such
personal praise a natural vehicle for the aspiration?; of lover; <>l their
country. To a petition of the Commons at. the bei' ( Inniii{; ol' her
reign concerning her marriage, she .had replied; * l I have alieady
joined myself in marriage to an Husband, the Kindnw <i' 1'iuj 1 , -
land. 3 * And when her long reign was over the promise of this ro
\ hour that they " had no need to doubt of a Successor " uu:; ma
good in the quiet and orderly settlement of the succession, Sluikr
speare could not omit without the gravest impropriety to follow hi;;
praise of Elizabeth by celebrating the glory of the ivigmnn; mnnuteti;
So shall she leave her blessedness to one,
When heaven shall call her from this cloud of tlarKnrvi,
Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour,
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she wa-;.
And so stand fix'd, Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,
That were the servants to this chosen infant*
Shall then be his, and like a vine j^row to him:
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shiar,
His honour and the greatness ol; his name
Shall be, and make new nations,
But^it was Elizabeth's labour and devotion that; had made ihir;
continuation possible, and those who were, like Hhake;;pe;m% ;m;ire
of the blessings of good government did not forget to honour lier
for it.
.INTRODUCTION xv
The reigns of Klr/aheth and James, while providing sufficient
adventure and excitement to occupy restless and emulous spirits,
also afforded a peaceful period between the confusion attending the
establishment of National Independence under a strong central
government: and the disturbances of the subsequent struggle for
the fuller enjoyment of the religious and civil liberty which National
Independence alone made possible. Though Shakespeare has
nothing to say of the struggle to come, his historical reading made
him recognize with gratitude the respite his country then enjoyed
from civil distraction. All through his Histories his preoccupation
with his country's welfare comes to the surface, as in the magnificent
but unhistorical lament of John of (Jaunt at; the ruin, wrought by his
nephew's instability, the nephew to whom Chaucer addressed the
Ballade which, concludes:
Dred (Joel, do law, Jove trouthe and worlhynesse,
And \vecl thy folk ageyn to stcudfuutnesse.
Shakespeare's I tistories arc u perpetual call to steadfastness, and
whenever he deals with politics, whether in his Histories or Tragedies,
he never wearies of urging, through the mouths of his most sagacious
characters, that observance of order and degree in the management
of the aifairs of state so necessary for the general weal. He
would have agreed with Cromwell: " A nobleman, a gentleman, a
yeoman that is a, good interest of the Nation." The speech from
Kir Thomas Moris included in the selections which follow can be
assigned to him, one may say with certainty, for many reasons,
but particularly for this, that it summarizes in the most pregnant
manner the views expressed elsewhere by Shakespeare, in Troilus and
Gressida, Coriofanus, and the Histories, voicing die conviction that
the people have no interest and no advantage in. domestic confusion
and misrule. It is significant that the occasion of this plea for law
and order by More was the injury done the Flemings by the I Condon
mob, and that it; is a plea for forbearance and good will among
different peoples. The Nationalism of Shakespeare and his con-
temporaries was no gospel of hate or envy- it was the patriot Sidney
who spoke of "that sweet enemyFrance "~~ -but the expression
of that passion for freedom which no good man loses, as the Scot-
tish estates told the Pope in the fourteenth century, save with his
life.
xv i INTRODUCTION
Shakespeare's Histories are, apt to In* rnsinlrd a,; a ]\\ .
of his art, but they arc only a small portion of the* pirv; >u ; ,urh
themes that filled the theatres especially in his ratlin- da\s. Not,
many except his have come down to us, hut fha rc\cal the spirit;
of the time, and should be read in conjunction \\ith flir Chronicle,-;
that inspired them, The Elizabethans wen* Keenh intrrr.trd in their
country's story, and this enthusiasm nourished and vui ; iKrli' the
outcome of their vigorous Nationalism.
The effects of this national disposition arc seen in all the activities
of the time, whether practical or poetical, "The- outeunoia and
all-embracing circle of benevolence, 1 ' says Word-, \Muth, :<pe,ikiw?
of the relation between the public and private duties ui ihr i
vidual, "has inward concentric circles \\hieh, like* Uo-,e nl
.spider's web, are bound together by links, anil iv.t upon earh othn;
making one frame and capable of one treiunr; cirrlr; nanmuT and
narrower, closer and closer, as they lie more near fo the <eiitrr of
self from which they proceeded, and \vhidi sustain-; the uhnl<*.
The order of life does not require thai; tin* sublime and Urante?e;.frd
feelings should have to trust long to their u\\n unassisted pm\n,"
The national enthusiasm was felt throughout; the whole Uatue t.i 1
Elizabethan life. It finds expression in the \\ords of Sidney
treating of the war in the Netherlands against Philip the S
wrote: u If her Majesty were the fountain, 1 \vohl fear, con-a
what I daily find, that we should wax dry, IluL she is but a mea
whom God uscth. And I know not whether 1 am t!eeea\ed; Imf I
am fully persuaded, that, if she shold withdraw herself, other sptini^
wold rise to help this action, For, methinks, 1 see the ^reat \\urk
indeed in hand against the abuscrs of th<^ world; \\heiein it is u
greater fault to have confidence in mauls power, than it is too hasfilv
to despair of God's work." This Is the consecration of the national
spirit m the service of what Milton called the free and heaven IHUU
spirit of man. At his untimely death the nation rightly Ml if had lust
a devoted son. But the spirit of the time also walks us it, did m ih<-
Arcadia m less sublime paths. It refreshes itself amon^ the woods
and by the rivers of its own beloved land. DrsiyU.n'ii'/^nAWW
a poetical and, to use Camdcn's term, " chonigrapliioal! " lUwrihti
of England m thirty songs or books, with its bkmdif K of luMorii-al
and antiquarian lore with poetic fervour, k a peculiarly KH/ahrthuu
ami the interests of antiquaries ami descriptive pools arc a hundred
activities quickened by a love of country. In their sea ventures,
where motives were so mixed, where gold was the excuse men fre~
(luently offered to themselves and to others to mve some show of
i. * 1 1
rationality to their almost incredible thirst for adventure, scorn of
the Spaniard and his restrictions found expression in a national
pride that: sanctioned and encouraged, their trallickings. 1 lakluyt;
lectured at Oxford on cosmography, hut his Na-ritftifioHs arc not
merely the collections of a geographer, hut of an Englishman who
celebrates the during and endurance of his fellow-countrymen.
Such a national, temper inevitably gives even to the humbler
sort si sense of individuality and worth. Of the political and civil
rights \vhich we now boast of they had few or none; for what would
the present generation say to compulsory church going? but: there
can seldom have lived a generation of men so conscious of the native
freedom of the spirit, Jt is not surprising, therefore, that drama is
so important a part of the literature of the ago. " This is the form
of art which as no other can shows you the living, breathing man,'*
It presents the individual concretely, in action, where sympathy is
not the outcome of a lengthy process of recondite analysis hut the
intuitive resultant of
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
To interpret these sympathies or expound the art by which the poet
moves them may tax the most subtle understanding, hut the drama-
tist's appeal first and last must depend on the health and vigour of
the moral sentiments of his audience. It is clear the Elizabethan
theatre-goer had many defects as what audience has not? but one
will have to go back to the Persian wars and the clays of /Bsehylus
and Sophocles to find a comparable body of spectators.
Every artist, says Wordsworth, has to create the taste by which
he is enjoyed, and the education of the Kli/,abethan audience in its
rapidity and completeness is not merely a tribute, to the genius of
the dramatists, but to the intelligence of their pupils. For in a few
years the leading London companies were transformed from organi-
zations depending chiefly on the popularity of the clowns and the
XV111
INTRODUCTION
dexterity of their tumblers to a hotly of art on-; almost \\iiollv j;i\vu
over to interpreting the conception of the dramatist, In llutulrf \vi:
hear the comedian being finally put in his plao\ hi;; invl<'\,wntr
suppressed, and the attention concentrated uu fhr dnmu. If thr
dismissal sounds somewhat summary, considering \\haf Shakrspnm'
had been able to make of his clowns, \vc must rrtwtuhrr thai, thr
dramatist had no more time to spare stretching hi:; ftmin^ tu utiti/r
this dangerous ally with the more necessary qumtinu:; **|' Otfn'ttn,
Macbeth, Lear pressing for solution, Beside,", ample extract?; I mm
the final achievements of this remarkable proce^*. of drv
there will be found in the following selections jaiflidrnt i
of the influences that contributed to the ultimate perfection.
Without attempting to retrace the growth of Uu* dratiiafie nui-
panics into an earlier and much more ohseure periotl t it may In*
said that drama entered on Its fmal development, \\hen the com-
panies became able to provide some sort of living fur men of rdueu-
tion. Though nominally the servants of the wovereit^i or ,%twe
nobleman, the actors made their living from the puhli<\ hut ;uistO"
cratic influences played an Important part in moulding Uu* tlumuu
and in the plays of Lyly we see how this inilurnce otnihl
almost in isolation. For these plays were not; written for th
public, but to be performed by boy-actors to aratuer.ttie p;itroiw.
In them he assumes a classical disguise for the treatment uf these
questions of deportment, and especially of lite relations hruveen
the sexes in polite and cultured society, matter that, had nhen usr
to a literature in Italy of which he \vas a diligent student, and that
now interested courtly circles in Knglaml The (^reek story or
myth satisfied a craving for beauty and poetry deeply implanted in
an age whose schoolbooks were the Latin classics, l,vly \va*t in
t^ 1 s
addition a stylist attempting to give to the prose in whieh he rom-
posed both his Euphucs and his comedicn a form, cle^anee, and
ornament that would continually attract and hold his rentier or
hearer. The influence of Lyly may bo seen in such a pltty an Shake-
speare's Love's Labour's Lost, which, being written probably in the
first instance for some aristocratic entertainment, Htuiuto italf-way
between pure court comedy and works like Twelfth /Vi/f/i/ or /1/i/r/i
Ado, where high comedy finds a place, and in the adventurcn of
Beatrice and Benedict an honoured place, on the public
w
INTRODUCTION xix
lore influential than court comedy was school and university
drama. This is modelled on. the practice of the ancients, especially
that of the Roman dramatists or their humanist successors. At first
this sort of drama was composed in Latin, as when in 1532 the boys
of St. Paul's played before Cardinal WoLscy in a Latin play composed
by their headmaster. A little later these classical imitations were
written in English, and became popular at schools, the Universities,
and Inns of Court. Such productions were not merely the amuse-
ment of a small and uniniluential clique of theatrical enthusiasts:
they were taken seriously by the authorities, headmasters turning
dramatists like Nicholas Utlall, head of Kton and then of West-
minster and now remembered as the author of Ralph Koistcr Dohter.
Seneca provided the model for tragedy, Plautus and Terence for
comedy, and if most of these school works can be dismissed in the
somewhat severe words of one of their critics as " dull trash of a
kind tolerated nowhere in England outside the Inns of Court and
the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge", they are very important
historically, and had a decisive influence on the younger generation
who were now to emerge from the grammar schools and univer-
sities and capture the popular stage with compositions that reveal
their schooling.
The first dramatist to graft successfully to the English stock
classical tragic tradition as exemplified in Seneca was Thomas KycL
Though not a University man he had been educated at the Mer-
chant Taylors' school under the famous Dr. Mulcastcr, who urged
on his pupils, the most famous of whom was Kdxnund Spenser, the
importance of a study of the classics as a means of disciplining and
perfecting their English. Like Marlowe's Edward II and Shake-
speare's Titus Andromcus, Kyd's Spanish Tragedy shows traces of
its origin: some quantity of Latin quotation and reference still
sticks to the text like wax to the young bee. With this work he made
an immediate and deep impression, old Hieronimo remaining u
character in the minds of playgoers for the next fifty years. At every
turn, however, he is indebted to Seneca, for though the revenge
theme is common in all literatures, it is here conducted in the classical
manner with the accompaniment of avenging ghost and torturing
doubts, soliloquies and recriminations. But Kyd showed remarkable
skill in managing the five act intrigue plot which had now become,
xx INTRODUCTION
partly through the influence of Latin comedy, the standard Conn for
all English drama of the time. Though Kyd is not, a poet, his verse
is in keeping with his theme, imitating not nnsmve:;:, fully ;it times
the gnomic turn of Heneca,
They rock no laws that mcdtlalc re\ nn\c,
Evil news fly faster still tluui r.oml.
And here and there occurs a phrase that must have lingered in
Shakespeare's memory to emerge transformed perhapw, bnl rrvealtnj;
the original brightness that may lurk obscurely in Kyd's dialogue.
Marlowe had none of Kyd's skill in construction, ;md some
simpler and more archaic form than the live art: intrigue plot would
perhaps have better suited his genius, but he curried the day with
his poetry and rhetoric. "What gave the theatre its Midden ,utd
direct hold on the people," says Mr. (Jramitlc liarker, " \v,t;; the
newly arisen art of emotional acting demanded by the risjnj; drama
tists." This was obviously required by Kyd, ami AlatluweV; ver.se
gave the actor another form of this opportunity. If Tarltou ami
Kempe carry on the older tradition of downing, Alh-yiu- and Iim1.;i};<-
are the products of this new school: the tragedians "were to (all heir
to the popularity of the clowns. No donhf there is too much of the
drum and fife in Tambtirlaine. to satisfy the wekrr for prrfivtion.
but there is a genuine note of aspiration and power. And beside
the domination of the verse is the domination of the figure he -H-leet-;
as .his protagonist. There is no one in his earlier playVbnt Tamlwr-
ame and Faustus. They may he far from consistent, and natnnd in
the details of their doings, but there is a fundamental cmwi,,uwv
about them that gave them their strong appeal. They represent in
tor impossible longings and desires something permanent in human
nature and they only fail to do justice to the theme because of the
, 1C f th Phiy but U cw
!V> to q>tc again from Mr. (iraiivillc liarke
Shakes P carc from a good dtanwtwt into u ^rc
of charactcr
r Und by alion
"n? n ^M f 1 ^V ThC ***** in tht ' ^, 1-wever,
leaven :n all Marlowe's best work. Tamburlai.it- wci.w at war
INTRODUCTION xxi
with mortality itself, and, Fiiustus would venture on the dark unex-
plored seas beyond the safe shores of human knowledge. What
makes Shakespeare's later heroes so much more tragic than Mar-
lowe's youth ful supermen is their greater humanity: they cannot
stand
As if a man were author of himself
And owed no other kin.
There is a consequent rending of heartstrings of which the other's
creations know nothing,
Marlowe is typical of his age in the force of his personality, lie
was sufficiently like his works to be dressed in the legend they
suggested, of one inspired like his own, Kaustus by familiars from
another world. In his dramas the individuality of the age finds ex-
pression forcing its way on to the stage, and animating its puppets
till they become in the hands of his greater contemporary
Forms more mil than living man,
Nurslings of immortality*
Shakespeare began, like Kycl and Marlowe, with classical models
steadily in view, l^enm and Adonis, which no student can explain
away as the work of another, owes much, to Ovid, the Comedy of
Errors is adapted from two plays by Plautus, and Titus Andronicus
is a Senecan revenge tragedy culminating in a situation of horror,
the serving of children to their parent, borrowed from the Thyestcs.
This tragedy has often been attributed to other hands in spite of
clear contemporary evidence that it is by Shakespeare himself.
Some think that he had not sufficient Latin to write it, others that
he had too much taste. The first view arises from the opinion,
propagated in the eighteenth century, that he was born in an
illiterate age in an obscure provincial town where the inhabitants
were sunk in ignorance. Such an opinion has no historical justifi-
cation, Elizabethan England being well provided with schools of
excellent quality. Nor were the majority of these schools recent
creations, and some even dated from Anglo-Saxon times. The
grammar school at Stratford was, like many others, rcfouncled in the
reign, of Edward VI, but with the money confiscated under the
Chantries Act that had previously been devoted to education,
There was a school in Stratford as early as the end of the thirteenth
xxii INTRODUCTION
century. Modern historians of education arc unanimous in li
a keen desire for education and ample provision lor if, in Shake-
speare's day. One illustration must sufluv. Professor John W.
Adamson instances as typical of the time that tlu'tr were* tWh .seven
schools or centres of instruction preparing for the university spread
over Essex before 1600; to-clay Kssex has thirty-four :ieeondarv
schools, nearly all on the border of or in the London area, A lm\
educated at Stratford grammar school tni^ht \vell have lite cbsi'iea!
reading disclosed by Titus Andmiicw* Ivyd luul no more than a
grammar-school training. And that Shakespeare would not present
such Senecan situations as arc found in Titns Andrnnictis is a \ ie\v thai,
overlooks the fact that Seneca was amon^ the educated tin* aeerpted
model for tragedy. If mere taste were to decide what r; Shake-
speare's and what is not, there would he many voices a^uiirit the*
inclusion of Venus and Adonis in Shakespeare's works.
From the first Shakespeare is a more skilful dtamutbt than
Marlowe, handling the intrigue plot as in The (fawrtly nf Ktntn or
The Taming of the Shrew with obvious skill. Iliji vetstiiratton is
more fluid, his characterisation more natural lie had a ^enius inr
comedy as Marlowe had not, and this culminates in lib first ^reaf
creation, Falstaff. With Hamlet following so dose <w KaKtalf we
have the best evidence of the reach and profundity of his gettiuH,
This only matured after a long and arduous period of neli* *traiuw{ in
the materials at his disposal His principal resource, forunutely
for us, was his poetry. This at the beginning is often little mote than
an embroidery on the theme and deliberately poetical: it always
remains poetical, but between the poetry of Richtmt II ami the poetry
of Macbeth there is a world of difference, ft in now Hirii'tly relevant,
to the matter In hand, and without any loss of unity a:; ;i \vholf
marks off character from character \vith perfect dfurwss, Thr
beauty of such a line as
The setting sun and nuusic at the clow
can almost dispense with its context, but I ,ear^
Never, never, never, never, ncvvr
is not to be taken from the play m which it Ktamk The poet ry *.f
the mature work has to convey to our intdli R encc an clearly m
INTRODUCTION xxiii
possible a complicated story, but it must also take the imagination
behind all this by the 'thousand suggestions that lurk in its rhythms
and imagery into the inner world of mind and conscience which is
now the subject-matter of his art. It is impoSvsible to exhaust the
variety and interest of his poetry.
In Shakespeare, of course, the work of the period finds its cul-
mination, but beside him is a wonderful array of writers: Jonson
and Chapman, Beaumont and Fletcher, Webster, Ford, I Icy wood,
are but a few of his contemporaries and successors. Though none
has the master's rare combination of talents, each has something
valuable, and a few are men of real genius. It is impossible to read
the novels of to-day and yesterday, including the Russians, with
any vitality in the characters, without being reminded of situations
and lines in the Elizabethans. And if the novel may have this advan-
tage for the ordinary reader that it is fuller and more obvious in its
exposition of character, the Elizabethans have all the advantage in
the concision and poetic force of their treatment,
It has sometimes been urged in criticism of the Elizabethan,
drama that it is too secular, and misses by its neglect of religion those
last sublimities to which the mind can be carried only by faith.
With such a view in mind, one must turn to another side of the
literature of the period. Sermons were as popular as plays and
came in greater quantities from the press. The Diary of John
Manningham, it has been pointed out, records in the space of some
sixteen months the substance of more than forty sermons. Manning-
ham was a playgoer and disliked Puritans, nor is he singular in his
interests. Those, therefore, who wish to take a comprehensive glance
over the period should not neglect to read some sermons, including
those of Henry Smith, Hooker, and Donne. But neither on, the
abundance nor on the quality of its sermons need the age rely for
a vindication of its spiritual interests,
The Renaissance has often been represented as the enemy of
the Reformation, but without the learning and scholarly interest
of the Renaissance the Reformation could not have made its most
valuable gift to the people, the Bible in a language they could read.
In the Exhortation which he prefixed to his edition of the Greek
New Testament (1516) Erasmus expressed himself on the reading
of Scripture as follows:
XXIV
INTRODUCTION
"I would desire that all women should reul the < Joiiprl ami rant's
epistles: and I would to God that they wiv irattiiisitinl into ihr i.mi'ur; ('
all men. So that they might not only he reud^md limun of the S Mi;, ;md
Irishmen, but also of the Turks and Saraecns."
At the time when Erasmus expressed this wish *' eandidatet; for the
priesthood were forbidden by order of Convocation to iranstate any
part of the Scriptures, or to read them without the authority nf tin*
bishop, an authority which was seldom granted ". TymUte \VIIM ihe
first to make the wish of Erasmus a reality, In defying an injurant
churchman he had declared, " if (Joel spare wv lift*, ere many year.;
f ^w if
I "will cause a boy that driveth the plough shall know mnie of the
Scriptures than thou doest". And his New Testament (t,vv;) and
Pentateuch (1530) are the busls of the Kn^lish Bible \\c know to
day; and even after the revision of hSSi " eighty per tvnt ui' the
words in the Revised New Testammt stand us thev stood iu Tut-
*
dale's revised version of 1534''*
The seed found a fertile soil in England, Sir Thumtu; More
reckoned that more than half the population \vere able enough to
read if not to profit by the Knglish version. He fovsa\\, houever,
the misuse of the work, the wrangling over doctrine and eercmonv (
and all the terrible wrong-headedncss that: would nu Imijvr he con-
fined to the clergy and educated laity, 1 le could not petsmule himself
that the wheat would not be choked by the tares, A Royal Procla-
mation (1538) forbidding the reading of Senptnre j^tneeH at imeh
abuses, noting that many of the King's " loving but uiniple stthjeel:;
were induced arrogantly and superstitions!)' to dispute iu open
places and taverns upon baptism and upon the holy sucnuunit ol'
the altar, not only to their own slander, but to the reprtiaeh of the
whole realm and his grace's high disconlentalion and ilispliwwv ",
But Foxe's Book of Martyrs, an indispensable document, lor the
understanding of the age, shows how earnestly it was jitudied; tlmi
entry, however, in a volume of the reign of I lenry V I If tnitnt uullitv
here to illustrate the enthusiasm of the ordinary man tor the
Bible:
"When I kept Mr. Latimer's sheep, I bought thin book, \Uu-a the
Testament was abrogated, that shepherds miwht ntit mid it, I ,rav <J*d
amend that bmdness. Writ by Robert Willmmu, k,^ mi ^ U|mn
INTRODUCTION xxv
The Bil)lc has become an KngKsli book as it has not become the
book of any other people into whose language it has been translated.
This would not have been possible but for sonic strong sympathy
in the English for its matter. Yet hero is contained the genius and
spirit of Religion, and the Authorixcd Version of i Cm, which closed
for more than two centuries the attempt to make the Bible as Kuglish
us possible, was the work of Shakespeare's contemporaries. One
cannot readily believe that the literature of sxich a generation was
merely secular in spirit.
And indeed such a judgment h only possible when we confuse
relicious feeling with ecclesiastical ceremony. The Anglican settle-
W * tf W W *fc
ment has often been sneered at as the offspring of Henry villa
desire for Anne Bolcyn, but it was made possible ami in the end
inevitable by deeper forces than the caprice of the King. No doubt
j i * '
it was a compromise, but it allowed sensible men for a space at least
to be free from worry about the external and political aspects of
their belief, and to give their most earnest thoughts to those inward
matters which are the material for literature us well as the evidence
and test of faith. Of Shakespeare's religious politics we have satis-
factory evidence in King John as in his Nationalism and whole
attitude of mind, but Newman was able to count him among the
most truly Catholic of the poets. 'There is no attempt to translate
into the perishable language of ritual or creed the truths of the
heart, no distortion of vision to accommodate some belief, but the
voice of free humanity uncontrolled cither by priest or presbyter,
and not needing even to protest: at their interference, Yet there is
no indifference or idle scepticism, and in this Shakespeare is only
once again the representative of his age. As a commentary on his
own words, " (Jod shall be truly known", may stand some sentences
which the Spanish humanist Hr. Miguel de Unamuno has addressed
to Don Quixote's squire, and which may be transferred to the
Elizabethan audience, the Sancho Panza without whom the drama-
tist cannot carry through his high adventure:
" Thine, Saueho, is genuine futth, not the so-eulU % il * faith of the char-
coal -burner \ who affirms that to bo true xvhich is printed in a book he has
never read because he cannot read, and who furthermore does not know
what the book sa
If there is in the best Elizabethan work what we in our com-
xxvi INTRODUCTION
placency call "a modern note ", a view chiucltrd fnuu the rcslrio
tion of creed and the limitation of knowledge, it is not; because of
lack of seriousness, but because it has for the moment; by tin* in-
tensity of its imaginative energy found si \vay to what; lies brneath
and animates both science and religion*
With the passing of the national impulse and the break-up of UK*
unity of the country comes a change in its literature, hut; the leijaey
of this happy moment can be enjoyed in part; at; least ami in ;;ume
measure estimated In the following pages.
LYLY TO SHIRLEY
c. 1590 c. 164.0
S"
/'
\
" " ^ ' \ ' \ ' "\ J* f"' ' '1 1" -Y " ""% < **>
V *J \ f\ I J "V J
Y ht -fl* a H-i *i* '* ?t Ifc r -wf i * i*t wa*Wt MWW rt* *) 'I'tamr W W< T*to ml *nw s*
Witf rtrfuv WfW WMfc(*ir*M'i''L-
V OHN LYLY
(? 1 554 1606)
Lvi,v was a u man of Kent n
nd wan horn in 1553 or 1554, lie
was cilueattHl at Mnj\tI;iUw Tollcj^c,
OKfortl, where he ^militated B,A,
in 1573 and M.A, in 1575, When
a yountf nuin of twenty-live, lie
leapt into mlden fame hy publish*
in^ hi prone romance, tfafilnws or
flic AiMtumiv of IJV/, Thm hook
wa ininuMiscly popular* and for
more than a deeade exerebed a
notent influence not only over
Jterature hut over polite conver-
sation. The oxuct nature of
cufihuhm, as the jargon of Lyly's
hook eamc to bc'culltul, ha been
HometimcH inisinterprctctL Kir
Walter Scott in in part reHpwwiblo
for tills, an Sir Fiereic Shafton, who
IB represented iu The Monmtwy^ as
a cuphtnHtj w a vain and fantastical
fop, but not a euphuwt in the proper
seme of that worth The' chief
characteristics of euphuism are;
(i) 4I a aweet profiuslon of soft
allusion '* to the chwHica, especially
to classical mythology; (a) refer-
ences to unnatural natural history,
mostly derived from Pliny (Lyly
VOU 11,
not only mentions ** Beasts which,
Uuilon never knew ", but attributes
extraordinary anilities and habits
to \vell-kno\vn leasts); (3) allitera-
tion, or affecting the Jotter; (4)
antithetical arrangement of words;
(5) puns; and (6) epigrams, Lyly's
style took the polite world by
storm; he followed up his success
hy writing a sequel to his novel,
entitled Kufihucs and Ms England
and published in 1580. Both novels
are thin sis regards plot; the author
devoted all his energies to elabo-
rating his fantastic but by no means
despicable style. Like many works
which have been extravagantly
praised on their first appearance,
,Lyly*tf two novels have been unduly
depreciated by many later genera-
tions, lie was something of a
philosopher and moralist as well as
a courtier, and his books may; be
enjoyed for their sound moralizings
as well as for the elaborate style
which has gained for them a limited
immortality in examination-papers-
Lyly's other non-dramatic work
consists of a contribution (which is
I 25
JOHN LYLY
denied to him by some critics) to
the Martin Marprelate controversy,
a controversy which produced a
legion of pamphlets but no litera-
ture. , .
Lyly cherished the ambition-
destined to be unfulfilled of be-
coming Master of the Revels, lie
was " entertained as servant " by
the queen about 1580, and wrote
in all eight comedies between 1579
and 1590. His plays were all
written for performance at court by
the Chapel Children and the Paul's
Boys; hence they stand rather
apart from other Elizabethan plays.
They are written in a delicate and
trifling vein, their charm lies in
their dialogue rather than their
plot, and they are designed to
appeal to a highly cultured audi-
ence. They are caviare to the
general; the groundlings of the
Globe would have found than
unintelligible and insipid. It is not
easy to ascertain their dates with
accuracy, but their names and
approximate dates are Endimwn
(1579), Sapho and Phao (1582),
Alexander and Campaspe (1583),
Gattathea (1584), Mydas (1588),
Mother Bombie (1589), Love's Meta-
morphosis (1590), and The Woman
in the Moone (1590). They arc all,
except The Woman in the Moont\
written in prose, not in blank verse
nor in doggerel. With one excep-
tion, Mother Bombie y which follow*;
the Plautine tradition, they are all
mythological and fanciful come-
dies. The best of them are perhaps
. Many of them have horn
interpreted us containing veiled
references to contemporary hrifnry;
this method of interpretation, which
is absurd or almost invariably so
when applied to public pla\s, i<; not
unreasonable uhen applied to these
court shows. Lylv'r* comedies are
high comedies; they atou-ie \\hat
George Meredith ri.iul a t'ouunlv ^s
tlLstin^uifiluHl from a f.uvr ;4i
arouse thoughtful Inu^htrr,
prase is the work of" a litmtv
tirtist; he frcrlv iufnnhirril into hin
plays lyrirs of thr niu*4 i'luinuioi^
kiiul, dcli^htftil in UK'uwhrt mul
in keeping with tlir situation,
p riu\sc lyrics did not appear in fypr
until the coIltTtivc cilitiou oi t^fA
but then; it; no nml to dctty that
they are 'jit any rait* thr hulk of
than LylyV \v(rk, Hn plt't air
negligible; lu* aw ntru not clratly
but aa trees walking; hnt ht-t ^n*at
gifts to drama an* idiunwnt,
literary tyle, and the ia;JiitHi of
introdneiti^ lyries. It in not merely
the fart that he adopted pm?e m a
vehicle for his comediei that makr:i
him huportunt. He h inipnrtant
because his sttyle, thoti^lt often
conceited and iuutuwiie^ b ;t ntyle;
not a mere furmitoiw coiu'attr;;e oi
wordn, us the eomjxmituwH ot" :
of his prcdeeeHHom tended to l
[R k Warwiek Hoiul, The C
ctt 1 Works uf Juhn /*y/v; ,
Wilson, John Av/v; <\' t, 'hiKI,
l and AVA/mw A. K
JOHN LYLY 3
From "Euphues"
Euphues to a young gentleman in Naples named Aldus, who
leaning his study followed all lightnes and lined both shame-*
fully and sinfully to the gnefe of his friends and discredite
of the Vniuersitie,
If I should talke in words of those things which I hauc to conferre
with thee in writinges certes thou wouldst blush for shame, and I weepe
for sorrowe: neither could my tongue vtter that with patience which
my hand can scarce write with modesty, neither could thy ears hcare
that without glowing which thine eyes can hardly vewe without grief e.
Ah Aldus, I cannot tel whether I should most lament in thcc thy want
of learning, or thy wanton lyuinge, in the one thou art inferiour to al
men, in the other superior to al beasts. Insomuch as who seeth thy dul
wit, and marketh thy fro ward will, may wel say that he neuer saw smacke
of learning in thy dooings, nor sparkc of relygion in thy life. Thou onely
vauntest of thy gentry, truely thou wast made a gentleman before thou
kncwest what honesty meant, and no more hast thou to boast of thy
stockc then he who being left rich by his father dyeth a begger by his
folly. Nobilitic began in thine auncestors and endcth in thec, and the
Generositie that they gayned by vertue thou hast blotted with vice. If
thou claimc gentry by pedegree, practise gentlenesse by thine honesty,
that as thou, challcngest to be noble in bloud, thou maist also proue noble
by knowledge, otherwise shalt thou hang lyke a blast among the faire
blossomes and lyke a staine in a peece of white Lawne.
The Rose that is eaten with the Canker is not gathered bicause it
groweth on that stalke that the sweet doth, neither was Helen made a
Starre, bicause shee came of that Eggc with Castor, nor thou a gentleman
in that thy aunccstours were of nobilitie. It is not the descent of birth
but the consent of conditions that maketh Gentlemen, neither great
manors but good manners that cxpresse the true Image of dignitie. There
is copper coine of the stampc that gold is, yet is it not currant, there
commeth poyson of the fish as wel as good oyle, yet is it not wholsome,
and of man may proceccle an euill childe and yet no Gentleman, For as
the Wine that runneth on the lees, is not therefore to be accompted neate
bicause it was drawne of the same pcece. Or as the water that sprmgeth
from the fountain.es head and floweth into the filthy channel is not to
be called cleere bicause it came of the same streame: so neither is he
that descendcth of noble parentage, if he desist from noble decdes to be
esteemed a Gentleman in that he issued from the loyns of a noble sire, for
that he obscureth the parents he came off, and discredited! his owne estate.
4 JOHN LYIiV
There is no Gentleman in Miens but sorrmveth to ;uv thy
so far to disagree from thy birthe, for this say they ;1 (uhirh is the
chiefest note of a gentleman) that; thou shouhicst ;u; \\ell desire fumeutir
in thy life, as honor by thy linage: that thy nature -.houhl not ;;\\enu*
from thy name, that: as thou by clutie woklwt be regarded for thy pr^eme,
so thou wouldst eudeauour by deserts to be reuerenml tor thv fnetie,
The pure Coral is chosen as wel by his vertue as his roulour, u kins*
is known better by his courage, then his cnnvtie, a rij'.ht < Jemleman is
sooner scene by the tryall of his vertue then bhwiiuj of his urwrii.
But I let passe thy birth, wishing thee rather with I '/Aw to shew it
in workes, then with Aiax to boast of it, with \\onls: thv M.uir ;hall
not be the lesse, but thy modestie the greater, Thou Iwrsi in I/A/v/v,
as the Waspe cloth among Bees, rather to stint'; then to \\.\i\irv llmmv,
and thou dealest with most of thy ucquuintuuure an the I >ojw doth in
the maungcr, who neither suifereth the horse to eat hay, nor vul hiw;t<liV,
For thou being idle, wilt not permit any (us furre us in ther Iveth) to br
well employed. Thou art an heyre to fuyrc lyuiuj,;, that in nothing, ti
be disheritcd of learning, for better were it to thee to mhetitr jutht
nesscthen riches, and far more seemely were it for thro to haue thv S
full of bookcs, then thy pursse full of numy: to w*t woth in the h<
of Fortune, to keepe them the gift of Wiaedouu*. AM therlnie thou an
to possesse them by thy fathers wil, so art thou to eiui'ea%e them by
thine owne wit.
But alas, why desircst thou to haue the reueueuen of thy parent,
and nothing regardest to haue his vertucs? Heekewt thou by ruuTcrininu
to enioy thy patrimony, and by vice to obscure IUH pirtir? wilf lltou
haue the title of his honour, and no touch of his howstic? Ali Ah'iu\
remember that thou art borne not to Hue after tlune uwn htiif, Inif tu
learne to dye, wherby thou ntuiist Hue after thy death, I hauo o|'u*n
heard thy father say, and that with a deepe si^h, the team* tru'lvliwi; iitnxnc
his gray haires, that thy mother nexier longed more to huut* hrc lttrtie
when she was in trauaile, then he to haue thee dead to ritl httn nl* trouhtt*,
And not seldome hath thy mother wished, that either hir wniitln* hail
bene thy graue, or the ground hirs. Yea> all thy irU'iutoM with tprn
mouth, desire cither that God will send thee grace; to atuciut thy tilV
or grief e to hasten thy death.
Thou wilt demaund of me in what thou dost oitViui; ami I aikr
thee in what thou doest not sinne, Thou nwearcnt thou art not euuefou:^
but I saye thou arte prodigail, and as much abmefh lie that luuinhdh
without meane, as he that hoordeth without tucusurt!, Hut I'aunl thou
excuse thy selfe of vice in that thou arte not couetoua? tvrttrinly uu
more then the murtherer would therefore be guylt!k% bicaiiHt* he h
no coyner. But why go I about to debate reason" with thee when thwi
hast no regard of honestie? thou 1 leauc hecre to pcrsiwuite ihcc, yc*t
JOHN LYLY 5
will I not cease to pray for thee. In the meane season I desire thec, yea,
and in Gods name commaund thce, that if neither the care of thy parents,
whom thou shouldcst comfort, nor the counsaile of thy friends which
thou shouldst credite, nor the rigour of the law which thou oughtest
to feare, nor the authentic of the Magistrate, which thou shouldst
reuerence, can allure thee to grace: yet the law of thy Sauiour who hath
redeemed thee, and the punishment of the Almightic, who continually
threatneth thee, should draw thce to amendcment, otherwise as thou
liucst now in sinne, so shalt thou dye with shame, and rcmaine with
Sathan. From whom he that made thce, kcepe thee.
From "Endimion"
ACT IV, SCENE II
SAMIAS. DARES, EPITON. (Three pages.)
Saunas. Will thy master never awake?
Dares. No, 1 think he sleeps for a wager: but how shall we spend
the time? Sir Tophas is so far in love that he pincth in his bed, and
conicth not abroad,
$aniias. But here cometh Epi, in a pelting chafe.
Jtyilon.A. pox of all false proverbs, and were a proverb a page, I
would have him by the ears.
Sawws. Why art thou angry?
you know it is said, the tide tarricth no man.
Kpiton.A. monstrous lie; for 1 was tied two hours, and tarried for
one to unloose me.
-Alas, poor Epi.
Poor? No, no, you base-conceited slaves, I am a most
complete gentleman, although I be in disgrace with Sir Tophas.
Dares. Art thou out with him?
Mptton.Ay, because I cannot get him a lodging with Endimion; he
would fain take a nap for forty or fifty years.
Dares. A short sleep, considering our long life.
Sawias. h he still in love?
Epi ton. In love? why he cloth nothing but make sonnets.
Samias.-~ Canst thou remember any one of his poems?
ttpiton.Ay, this is one.
The beggar Love that knows not where to lodge:
At last within my heart when I slept,
He crept,
I waked, and so my fancies began to fodgc.
JOHN I/VIA'
. That's a very long verse,
Samias. That's a very long vcn*. ...,,, , , ,
JWton Why, the other was short, the first is ',!lol itom the thumb
the little finger, the second from (lie Hide liir' 1" ''<' ''I 1 '"". :!
ne he made to reach to Uw crown of his lu-.u!, ami .Imvit .U..HI. m tin-
. nf V,; a frtntr it is set to the time of the lil.u-k S.imu'r, i.ilto /. I.e. .HIM-
to
some
sole of his foot: it is set: to the tune
Dipsas is a black saint.
Barw, Very wisely, but pray thci\ Kpi, how art ihou <'owplru\ ,iml
being from thy master what occupation vsllt tlwu ukr;
Epiton. No, my hearts, i urn an absolute .U/Vw^w^, >\ juMtv wmhl
of myself, my library is my head, for 1 have u*> othrr bnnks tmt my hums:
my wardrobe on my back, for 1 have no wore appuirl ih.ui is uu my
body; my armoury at my finger cncln, for 1 \\w n> ihn arftllriv tlian
my nails; my treasure in my purse, AYf ;w/W ;mw wn i/w /^/^,
Dares, -Good!
Epiton. Now, sirs, my palace is paved \vith )tr;tn*s .uut tilnl uilh
stars: for rocfo tegitur gut mm luitwt urmm* !u* that liatli no Imtj^r tmm
lie in the yard.
Samas. A brave resolution. But how wilt tlnm spnttl lh\ tiwr?
Epiton,Noi in melancholy sort, for tuiue evcrt'ine I will uatk hnrnc-i,
Dares.
Dares.- Too bad.
Epiton. Why, is it not said: It is good walking \\brn uitc hath hin
horse in his hand?
&v, and worse, but how wilt thmi live?
Epiton.'By angling; 'tis a stately occupation to r.t.itut turn htmrn
in a cold morning, and to have bis nose bitten with ft'unf brfarr hi-t It.tit
be mumbled with a lish,
Dares. A. rare attempt, but wilt thou never travel?
Epiton. Yes, in a western barge, when with u gotid wind iiwl hmly
pugs * one may go ten miles in two days,
Stowz'rfj, -Thou art excellent at thy choice, hut whitt juritimr will
thou use, none?
Epiton.'YGs, the quickest of all
Samias. What ! dice?
Epiton.-^O) when I am in haste, one and twenty tfnww t t'ltces to
pass a few minutes.
Daw, A life for a little lord, and full of quiekneHH,
Epiton.~-~~ Tush, let me alone! but J must needn see if I cm iimt whcrt?
Endimion lieth; and then go to a certain fountain hard by, where they
say faithful lovers shall have all things they will axk. If I run Jin* I <ait
any of these, ego ct magister mms wimus in /w/^ t 1 ami my ituwccr wh
be friends. He is resolved to weep sonic three to four paillulw to av
the rheum of love that wambleth in his stomach,
* Bargemen,
JOHN LYLY 7
(Enter the WATCH)
Samias. Shall we never see thy master, Dares?
Dares. Yes, let us go now, for to-morrow Cynthia will be there,
E[)iton.I will go with you. But how shall we see for the
Watch?
Samias. ^ 'ush, let me alone! I'll begin to them. Masters, God speed
you.
1 Watch. Sir boy, we are all sped already.
Epiton.-So methinks, for they smell all of drink like a beggar's beard.
Dares. But I pray, sirs, may we see Endimion?
2 Watch. No, we are commanded in Cynthia's name that no man
shall see him.
Samias.' No man? Why, we are but boys.
1 Watch. Mass, neighbours, he says true, for if I swear I will never
drink my liquor by the quart, and yet call for two pints, I think with
a safe conscience I may carouse both,
Dares. -Pithily, and to the purpose.
2 Watch. Tnsh, tush, neighbours, take me with you.
Sawias. This will grow hot.
Dares. Let them alone.
2 Watch. If I say to my wife, Wife, I will have no raisins in my
pudding, she puts in currants, small raisins are raisins, and boys are
men. Even as my wife should have put no raisins in rny pudding, so
shall there no boys sec Endimion.
Dares .Learnedly .
Kpiton.Lut Master Constable speak: 1 think he is the wisest among
you.
Master Constable. 'You know, neighbours, 'tis an old said saw,
Children and fools speak true,
All Say, True.
Master Constable. Well, there you sec the men be the fools, because
it is provided from the children.
Dares, Good.
Master Constable. Then say 1, neighbours, that children must not
see Endimion, because children and fools speak true,
Kpiton.O wicked application!
Samfas.Scurvily brought about!
i Watch, --Nay, he says true, and therefore till Cynthia have been
here he shall not be xmcovered. Therefore away!
Dares, A watch quoth you? a man may watch seven years for a
wise word, and yet go without it. Their wits are all as rusty as their
bills.
JOHN l/VLY
Bird Songs
What bird so sings, yet so doc; wail?
0! 'tis the ravished nightingale,
" Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereul" she crin,
And still her woes at; umlnijhl rise,
Brave prick-soup;! who is't now v>e hoar?
None but the lark so shrill ;md clear;
Now at heaven's gates she clap:; her win^s
The morn not waking till she tunf*: 1 *,
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast; tunes hit; note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sins,*,,
" Cuckoo," to welcome in the sprm* 1 ;!
" Cuckoo," to welcome in the spring!
Cupid and Campas ; x fc
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, Cupid paid;
lie stakes his quiver, bow, anil arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of npumm.v,
Loses them too; then down he throw;;
The coral of his Up, the rone
Growing oil's cheek (but none knowis hm\);
With these, the crystal of his brow*
And then the dimple of Ins chin:
All these did my Campaspc win,
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rim-,
Love! has she done thin for ihec?
What shall, alas! become of me?
GEORGE PEELE
9
GEORGE PEELE
(? 1558-? 1597)
GEORGK PKKLK was the son of the
clerk of Christ's Hospital, an ahlc
man with an expert knowledge of
book-keeping, which he did not;
transmit to his son, who was
always amiably impecunious. Peele
was educated at Christ's Hospital
and at Broadgates Hall (now Pem-
broke College), Oxford; he mi-
grated, however, to Christ; Church,
whence he graduated B.A. in 1577
and M.A, in 1579. After leaving
Oxford he led a Bohemian life in
London, and was a friend of
Greene, Nash, and Marlowe. He
married, in 1583, a lady of pro-
perty, but did not become any
more sober in his mode of living,
Little more is known of his life,
but he died before September,
1598, when the Reverend Francis
Meres, in his Palladis Tamia, wrote
brutally and euphuistically, " As
Anacreon died by the pot, so
George Peelc by the pox " There
is some reason to believe that
alliteration may have taken pre-
cedence of truth in this statement.
Some nine years after his death
there appeared a collection of
faeetitc entitled Mcmti conceited
Jests of George Pccle. Some of
these jests are much older than
Peele, but some passages are bio-
graphical. Upon one of these
stories is bused The Puritan^ or the
Widow of Waiting Street^ a play
sometimes misattrilmted to Shake-
speare. Its hero, George Pyeboard,
is Peele himself (" peel " is a
baker's board used for putting pies
in the oven).
Peek's pastoral comedy The
of Parts appeared
about 1581, It is a graceful play,
full of skilful (lattery of Queen,
Elizabeth. King 'Ihfwtird /' (to
reduce its lengthy title to a reason-
able compass) is a chronicle-history
which misrepresents Queen Klinor
because she was a Spaniard. Jt
probably appeared soon after the
defeat of the Armada, The Haltctt
of /J/aiyar is a vigorous play which
is probably by Peele. The Old
Wives* Tale, is one of the most
amusing of Pecle's plays. It is
usually considered to be a skit
upon romantic drama, and so a
forerunner of The Knight of Ihe
Ilurning Pestle\ but; some critics
consider that it; exemplifies rather
than satirizes a certain kind of
folly. Milton derived more than a
hint: or two from this play when
writing Counts. The Lore of King
David and Fair Bcthstibe (1588), a
somewhat cloying play, owes its
plot entirely to the Old Testament,
and was probably written to con-
ciliate puritan opposition to the
drama, though it may well be
doubted whether it succeeded in
its well-mount endeavour, Fleay
credits (or perhaps it would be
more correct to say discredits)
Peelc with the authorship of The
Wisdom of Doctor Ihtttlifwl!, Wily
Hcguifat, and The Life and Death of
Jack tit raw*
Peele had not the natural gifts
that a dramatist should have; Kin
very considerable gifts were purely
poetical. Jle wrote plays simply to
make a livelihood; lie hud no
literary conscience, and something
I0 GKOROK PKKI.K
and he Iran a Buiten ; 7%, 1 1* * -/ /f
real gift for musical effect. lfi K.t'lu-lUuul, A/MI/.- ," <**'
A Sonnet
His golden locks titnc luith to silver turuM;
time too swift, vviftncs urvrr I-*MMIU'.! ^
His youth 'gainst time and aw hath CUT ^mnni.
But spurn'cl in vain; youth waurili I*y cwtr.iriiw' 4
Beauty, strength, youth, arc (loucr:; Uui t'.ulitut --rru
Duty, faith, love, arc roots, aiul ever guru,
His helmet now shall tmike a hive for Uvi,
And lovers' sonnets turnM to holy j
A man at arms must now nerve on lib
And feed on prayers, which arc* ai^c hi'i
But though from court to cottage he tU'juit,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart,
And when he saddest aits in homely veil,
Hell teach his swains this carol tor a :*MK;
Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign \\rll,
Curs'cl be the .souls that think her any wron^:
Goddess, allow this aged muu liis ri^ht,
To be your beadsman now that wan your ktuj*l*t
From "The Araygnement of
(Flora dresses Ida Hill, to honour the coining of I lit-
Not Iris in her pride and bravery
Adorns her Arch with such variety;
'
Nor doth the Milk-white Way in Crusty nt^
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight.
i
pirtiality of ;j Lima ,h, b nu,
Nash CM I ,,m
GEORGE PBELE o
As done those fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers,
Bestrewed and dcckM with parti-colour'd flowers.
Along the bubbling brooks, and silver glide,
That: at the bottom doth, in silence slide,
The watery (lowers and lilies on the hanks
Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks;
Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree,
Where sacred Phoebe may delight to he:
The primrose, and the purple hyacinth.
The dainty violet, and the wholesome niintli;
The double daisy, and the cowslip (queen
Of summer flowers), do overpeer the green;
And round about the valley as ye pass,
Ye may no see (for peeping flowers) the grass.
They are at hand by this,
Juno hath left her chariot; long ago,
And hath returned her peacocks by her rainbow:
And bravely, as becomes the wife of Jove,
Doth honour by her presence to our grove:
Fair Venus she hath let her sparrows fly,
To tend on her, and make her melody;
Her turtles and her swans unyoked be,
And flicker near her side for company:
Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed,
Commanding them to wait when she hath need:
And hitherward, with proud and stately pace,
To do us honour in the sylvan chase,
They march, like to the pomp of heaven above,
Juno, the wife and sister of King Jove,
The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love.
(The Muses a,nd Country Girls assemble to welcome the Goddesses*)
POMONA
with country store like friends we venture forth.
Phink'st, Faunus, that these goddesses will take our gifts in worth?
FAUNUS
May, doubtless; for, 'shall tell thce, dame, 'twere better give a thing,
\ sign of love, unto a mighty person, or a king,
Than to a rude and barbarous swain both bad and basely born:
'for gently takes the gentleman that oft the clown will scorn.
GEORGE PKKLF,
The
CcHWUV
Olda, Oldu, Ida, happy hill!
This honour done to Ida nny it continue mill
MUSKS
Ye country gods, that in this Ida womie,
*t/ ft * i
Bring down your gifts of welcome*
For honour done to Ida,
(ions
Behold in sign of joy we tung,
And signs of joyful welcome Inm t
For honour done to Ida,
PAN
The god of shepherds, ami lib mat en,
With country cheer salutes your States;
Fair, wise, and worthy, an you be!
And thank the gracious Uuliivi Three*
For honour done to Ida,
PARIS, OMNMM-:.
PARIS
Ocnoue, while we bin disposed to wail,
Tell me, what shall be Kuhject of our vlll;
Thou hast a sort of pretty *t;tlw in .more;
'Dare say no nymph in klu'a \voud:; haiii mint
Again, beside thy sweet alluring face,
In telling them thou hunt a spcciul j'riur,
Then prithee, sweet, ullbrd wmie pretty tttiw
Some toy that from thy plciwuut wit timh upiVi
OKNONK
Paris, my heart's contentujcat, and my rhtiu-e
Use thou thy pipe, and I will UHC my Volt v ' '
bo shall thy just request not; be denied
And time well-spent, and both be Hut'wiicd
OKORC.E PKKLK 13
4
PARIS
Well, gentle nymph, although them do me wrong,
Tlint can nc tune my pipe unto a song,
IVIe list: this once, Oemme, for thy sake,
This idle task on me to undertake. [Th<y &t under a tree together.
And whereon then shall be my roundelay?
For thou hast heard my store long since, 'dare say
I low Saturn did divide his kingdom tho*
To Jove, to Neptune, and to l)is below;
How mighty men made foul successless war
Against the gods, and state of Jupiter:
How Phorcyas' ympe, that was so trick and fair
That tangled Neptune in her golden hair,
Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed;
A pretty fable, Paris, for to read;
A piece of cunning, trust; me for the nonce,
That wealth and beauty alter men to atones:
How Salmaeis, resembling Idleness,
Turns men to women all through wantonncs 1 :
I low Pluto raught Queen Ceres' daughter thence,
And what did follow of that love offence:
Of Daphne turn'd into the laurel tree,
That shows a mirror of virginity:
How fair Narcissus, tooting * on his shade,
Reproves disdain, and tells how form, doth vade:
How cunning Philomela's needle tells,
What force in love, what wit in sorrow, dwells:
What pains unhappy souls abide in hell,
They say, because on earth they lived not well,
Ixion's wheel, proud TantaPs pining wo,
Prometheus' torment, and a many moe;
How Danaus* daughters ply their endless task;
What toil the toil of Sysiphus doth ask.
All these are old, and known, I know; yet, if thou wilt have any,
Choose some of these; for. trust me else, Oenone hath not many.
PARIS
Nay, what thou wilt; but since my cunning not compares with, thine,
Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine,
* Looking
OKNONK
My love can pipe, my love can
My love can many a pretty thiuj^
And of his lovely praiacs ring
My merry, merry, merry roundclavH,
Amen to Cupid's Curse;
They that do change old love for new
Pray gods they change for worse,
BOTH
Fair, and fair, etc
Fair, and fair, etc
GEORGE PKKLK
OKNONK
jre is a pretty sonnet then, we call it Cupid';; Curse*;
hey that do change old love for new, pray ftmh I hry rh.rn^r for \\
I WK\Y
OKNONK
Fair, and fair, and twice ,so l\\h\
As fair as any may he,
The fairest shepherd on our f*rccn,
A love for any lady,
PARIS
Fair, and fair, ami tvvur HO fair.
As fair as any may lx\
Thy love Ls fair for then alom\
And for no other lady,
OMNONK
My love is fair, my love k j;uy,
And fresh as bin the flowm in iM,u\
And of my love my roundelay*
My merry, merry, merry roundelay.
Concludes with Cupid's" Cure;
They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for \\orse,
Ikrnr
Fair, and fair, etc,
Fair, and fair, etc,
ROBERT GREENE
ROBERT GREENE
(c. 1560-- 1592)
ROBERT GREENE was born at Nor-
wich of parents who were several
degrees more respectable than him-
self. He was educated at St. John's
College, Cambridge, where he
graduated B.A. in 1578, and where
he made friends with men as grace-
less as himself. After travelling in
Spain and Italy, where he practised
" such villainie as is abhominable
to declare J \ he returned to Cam-
bridge and migrated to Clare Hall,
graduating MA. in 1583 and in-
corporating at Oxford in 1588. In
or about 1583 he went to London,
and commenced his precarious
career as playwright and pam-
phleteer, a career which was sadly
interrupted by his sordid profligacy.
About 1585 he married, but de-
serted his wife after he had spent
her money and she had borne him
a son. His miserable life was
rendered more miserable by fre-
quent fits of repentance. He died
at the age of thirty- two, and his
death-scene is one of the most
memorable in literary history
*/ h/
indeed it reads more like a passage
from one of tola's novels than a
true story. His death was caused
by a surfeit of Rhenish wine and
pickled herrings. As he lay dying
he wrote for help to his wife, whom
he had left six years before. Some
writers have stated that Greene
was a clergyman, but though there
were great discrepancies in his life,
there was no discrepancy as great
as that. Greene had many faults ,
but hypocrisy was not one of them;
he could not have concealed the
fact that he was in holy orders, if
he had been. In a well-known
epigram Martial boasted that " His
page was wanton, but his life was
chaste ". This saying might be
reversed and applied to Greene.
His life was profligate, but his
writings singularly pure for that
age. His chief plays are Alphomus
King of Arragon, an echo of' Tamer -
kme; Orlando Fur ioso\ The Honour-
abk History of Friar Bacon and
Friar Siwgay, probably written to
rival Dr. Fau$tus\ and The Scottish
History of James IV, slain at
Flodden, This last play belies its
name, as it is not a chronicle-play,
Imt a dramatisation of a story
found in Cinthio's Ilecatomnuthi,
the collection from which Shake-
speare drew the plot of Othello.
Greene, in fact, introduced real
characters into a fictitious story,
just as in mid- Victorian days T. W.
Robertson did when writing David
Garrtck, Greene was not an all-
accomplished dramatist, but he
drew characters with some clever-
ness, and developed his plots with
no little success,
Greene's romances, pamphlets,
and .miscellaneous writings may be
divided into three dasscseuphuis-
tic, cony-catching, and penitential,
Of the first class the most famous
is Pandas to (1588), also known as
Doras'tus and Fawn la ^ because it is
the direct source of The Winter's
Talc, and of Shakespeare's geo-
graphical knowledge of Bohemia.
PcrlnmJes the Machmith (1588),
Mentiphon (1589), and Phtlomda
(1592) are other members of this
class, it is doubtful whether the
exposing the ways of trans^twuur., <}trrnr\ pin.,- \Mihn -,
or merely to put money in flit* (itvur 44 4 nutn intluttnl f| H *
author's pocket. They arc awusiw; f,r-btnn; fir imitate, 1 I Uv atul
productions, the Disfutftitiun fa* '\l,i?h\u\ 4ti*l \rf Kr 4Mn! bt, u\ui
/zom* # llc-duny-dntchcr <tttd <t t'ontuhuftMn , M4>r ami drlii^uv
She-Ctiiiy-Catclwr lieinj,; perhaps fur.uh Junta, th 1 vur, jtn;i in
the best, 'The penitential pant" hin htr, 4u*t -Jutnt Sti Tibv
phleta are the work of hi:; last davs, Urh'h';* ta'-ir- \*\\ pt* IJ^.l hrniit<*" tn
i ' j ****'#,< i^
In one of them, (trcenc^ fV(//,v- a food \Un h at "inr a'/^utrd
wor/A r;/" II"7/ he attacked Shake- apprfiir ,titd piM^nLr*! \l\\\\\, tltit,
spcare as u an upstart crow", Many likr 4 ^HMfrt fittn ^ii' Tuln^ ;ti'
critics have been unable to forgive tiinr; In* M l4ih!r,l t ;MTU lu-ld-i '*
Greene for tins attack; but win;*; and .shm\nl iatu.dt, 4iuti ihr
that Shakespeare developed late :*<jualnr i lu-i '.utttituhu'.v^ 4 tiur
and had written little of outstanding port i the nuuin Mttr,"
merit before Greene died, it is nut |Kdifiwi In \ ( H, titM-iau, |
to be wondered at; that (Jivcno (liuimn 1 \lhu s -tal T, 1 1, lh*Kiti.
failed to foresee Shakespeare 1 ;; mm; ], r, |it*Lt;i ( It^hut f/;vm
3ephevStiti\s Sontr to her ( Ihiht
Weep not, juy wanton, jitnilc* upon uiv li\a\
Wben thou art old thciv'ji j'.iid rn*u^l ! tit. r.
Mother's wat^ pretty hn\,
Fatlier'n Morrcnv, f'atitrt'-i juv,
When thy father li*M di4 MV
Such a IHJV hy him and iac%
He \\ats j;lail, 1 \vau unc,
Fortune clian^nl utadr hint ?,
When he left bin pivtiv luiy
Last bin sorrow, firs.i hit, j, v ,
Weep not, my wanton, mnk upon mv kntv,
When thou art old thereA; W ricl riuitj^h bit U,, V(
Streaming teaw that ut*\i*r ttiut,
Like pearl tlrop^finnt ;t tlitit (
Fell by course from hin ryru,
For one suiothr' pla^c hiipnfir^i
^M 4 ^ ft * (r
Ihua he grievM in every jurt,
Team of blood fell fmm lib luMrt,
When he left 1H pretty hoy,
Fathers sorrow, father V
ROHKRT (JRKHNK 17
Weep not, my \\anlon, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there *s f^rief enough for tluv,
The \\anton smilM, father \\ept,
Mother ened, baby leapt;
More he ero\\M, more \ve cruxl,
Nature eotild not sorrow hide;
lie must f<o, he must kiss
Child ami mother, baby bless,
For he left his pretty hoy.
Father's r.orrow, father's joy*
H' #
Weep not, my wanton, smile tipon my knee,
When thoti ait old there's f^rief enough tor thce.
(From HfetM
Doron's Description of Saincla
hike to Diana in her summer
(till with u erimr.on rnbc of hrh'jitesit tlye,
tt ^ ^v f
< Joos fair Samela;
\\hiter thati be the (Inekt; that strai>y ( linj>; feed,
\\ hen washM by Aretluuna (ouiti they lie.
' ' *
Is fair Samela;
As fair Aurora in her morning grey,
l)eek*d with the ruddy Blister of her love,
!M fair Hamela;
Like lovely Thetw on a ealmed tlav,
<f fc' *
WUeuati her brightness NeptuneVi fancy movt),
Shi new fair Hamela;
Her tres.nen gold, her eyes like /jjluttsy stauun
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory
Of fair Samela;
Her eheeb t like rase, and lily, yield forth gleams,
Her brows* bright juvhcM Irani VI of ebony;
Tlum fair Haiucla
Faseth fair Vcuttsiu her bravest hue,
And Juno in the nhow of majesty,
J ( "or lic' Samela;
Pullas in wit, all three, if you \voll view,
I^or beauty, wit, and matchless* dignity
Yield to Samela.
(I'rom Mcnaplion.)
n, :6
ROBKR
T ; ie S"icp; f| icni/s Wife's S
Ah, what iit IWT? If iri .t fnrtu fhtn',%
As sweet tmt<> ;i :;h<<plK'i'il .1 i ;t Kiti>;
Ami rAMTfrt tun,
For kiufts have cam; that \\aif upmi a * f
And cares e;w m;tl\e ihr :;\\rrtf".f l\r IM
Ah thru, ;th flirti
If country loves sudt %\\crt *!*', itri il s
What livel \vouhl not ln\r ,i --Itrphr^l '.\\.ut
Ilia flock an* foklnl, hr vtMur * hnsur 4?
As merry as ;v ktiii* in hi-; i
Alu
For kinjjs hctluak them \vlutf fhr 'i,itr r|
Whore atu'pherito cuH'lr i .!i tar*l Uv ihr ht
Ah ilitni s ah tlirsi,
If anintry lov-cr* rau r !i %\\rri Jr 4fr\ *t<* ^,u
What lutly \vouhl not ln\r a :Ju-|*!in*t ;a\,u
I To kwscih iirjit, then J-UIH an dlitlir tn *Mf
lib cream ami curtln, ;i:i tlnth tttr Kitu^ lit .
Altit 14ill*rr CMM,
For kings lum* often frant \vlu*u thrv il M
Where sheplutnl^ tlrc;ul no ju*i'.m in liirit
All tttt*fl t iih thru,
If country IOVCH such twcrt tlcaivi *l* tt-ui
What kuly would not love u :ihqtlivul -Aw
To bed he gocn, UH \viintun tint, I \\rru,
As is a king in ctullhuuv vuth ;i i
More tt,
Por kings have nutny wwM ull
Where shepherds have r j'.murr iuH' tltari
Ah ihen, ;th Utnt,
If country loves nuch nwwi drMren ib |ntii4
What lady would not love u ,slu*|tlunl
Upon his couch of straw he hU'cpw an umttitt t
As doth the king upon his titda of aw;
ROBERT GREENE 19
For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Ah then, ah then,
If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or sith;
And blither too,
For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
When shepherds laugh and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,
If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
(From The Mourning Garment.}
From "Dorastus and Fawnia"
In the country of Bohemia, there reigned a king called Pandosto,
whose fortunate success in wars against his foes, and 'bountiful courtesy
towards his friends in peace, made him to be greatly feared and loved
of all men. This Pandosto had to wife a lady called Beliaria, by birth royal,
learned by education, fair by nature, by virtues ruinous, so that it was
hard to judge whether her beauty, fortune, or virtue won the greatest
commendations. These two, linked together in perfect love, led their
lives with such fortunate content that their subjects greatly rejoiced to
see their quiet disposition. They had not been married long, but "Fortune,
willing to increase their happiness, lent them a son, so adorned with the
gifts of nature, as the perfection of the child greatly augmented the love
of the parents and the joy of their commons; in so much that the
Bohemians, to show their inward joys by outward actions, made bonfires
and triumphs throughout all the kingdom, appointing jousts and tourneys
for the honour of their young prince: whither resorted not only his
nobles, but also divers kings and princes which were his neighbours,
willing to show their friendship they ought to PamKsto, and to win
fame and glory by their prowess and valour. Pandosto, whose mind was
fraught; with princely liberality, entertained the kings, princes, and
noblemen with such submiss courtesy and magnificat bounty, that they
all saw how willing he was to gratify their good wills, making a general
feast for his subjects, which continued by the space of twenty days; all
which time the jousts and tourneys were kept to the great; content both
of the lords and ladies there present, This solemn triumph being once
ended, the assembly, taking their leave of Pandosto and Beliaria, the
20
ROBERT (JKKIiNM
young son, who vuw called Oariutcr, was imr,;nl up in ihr hmr.r to i| H >
great joy and content of the parents*
Fortune envious of such happy .smvt:;s, wilbu- to -.\\t\\\ :^n\c ^ n
of her inconstancy, turned her wheel, ami tlatKmol ihnr lui-ht sun
of prosperity with the misty clouds of inislup ami miM'iv, For it <,
happened that Kgistus, king of Sit-iliiK who in hi-, \nuib lul lmi I'nnu^ht
up with Pandosto, desirous to show that neither li.u t ot Umo nor ilt'itautv
of place could diminish their former IwuUiip, junuilnl a u.uv of
ships and sailed into Bohemia to visit fun oM innul and fomjuninii,
who, hearing of his arrival, went himnrlf in per inn ami tin \\iir IMI.iria,
accompanied with a great train of lords and LubV; to ittrrf t^i-at^; ami
espying him, alighted from his horw, tiuhrauHl him xnv lo
protesting that nothing in the world eoukl have lupprunl tuujr m
to him than his coining, wishing hi wiiV to urlromr his nh! tuet
acquaintance: who, to show how she liknl him uhom Itrt 1m .h UM! ovott,
entertained him with such familiar court env as Iv^r.nr. prnrunl tuitrtrlt
to be very well, welcome, After they h;ul lints ;;ilnfcnl ami rjuhutM'd c,t\ h
other, they mounted again on horseback uwl nul* tiv\,utl ihr ^ it\ , d<n i-iiu-*,
and recounting how being children they had juvuM flu-it vufh us hi*n>tl\
pastimes: where, by the means of tlir citi/ntrk, ! ; ^i"4ii'* \\a-* tnri\rk!
with triumphs and shows, in stich soil that hr nurxrlleil ho\\ on '*u Mn.ilt
a warning they could make Huch prepanitiuu,
Passing the streets, thus, with tuu'h rare sv'Jii'*, llirv nntr *n to ihr
palace, where Pandosto entertained JvLstus antl hi 3 * Siuliau-i \ufli ,mh
banqueting and stmiptnous cheer, tu royally as thc*v alt ha*i * au-*r SM
commend his princely liberality; yea, thr verv !MMV*I stavt* tlut \vin
known to come from Hicilhi was used with mu'U *'MIM*'A (lut l ! !tti*4ui
might easily perceive how both he and his uerr bonuumt Jtn hi-i uirtul'%
sake, Bcllaria, who in her time \VUH tbe l!tn\r' nl tfutir%v \\illiuj* tti
show how unfciguedly H!IC loved her Imnhaud by hi't iuriid*% ^titri uiwurnt,
used him likewise so familiarly tlutt her eoumcuaucr !H-\Mavcl hn\\ tin
mind was affected towards him, oftentimes vommft brr^ll tufa hin brl
chamber to see that nothing should be amm to mnlikr Ititn, Thrt fitur:i{
familiarity increased daily more and more bri\\i\t tUt*w; lv Ikltiria,
noting in Egistus a princely and bountiful mind, adunird \\tfb wwtirv
and excellent qualities, and KgiHtiw, Ihulinj*; iu her ;i urnum-* ;u*t
courteous disposition, there grew aueh eeret unifiit|f ut" fhtnr attntiftiw,
that the one could not well be without tin* company ot i\w oihn: in
so much, that when Pandoato wan Inisicd with jitu'h' ui)r$ti allaiffi that
he could not be present with his friend Hiatus, llrlhiiii \\uttU! ualk with
him into the garden, where they two iu private umt pttM^ut ilrvivcu
would pass away the time to both their content*. Tbiti enstom milt ,'tw-
tmuing betwixt them, a certain melancholy puaniou ^ritfiin^ die mimi
of Pandosto drave him into sundry and doubtful thim^u*.' Kirnt, he
ROBERT GREENE zi
called to mind the beauty of his wife Bellaria, the comeliness and bravery
of his friend Egistus, thinking that love was above all laws and, therefore,
to be stayed with no law; that it was hard to put fire and flax together
without burning; that their open pleasures might breed his secret dis-
pleasures. He considered with himself that Egistus was a man and must
needs love, that his wife was a woman and, therefore, subject unto love,
and that where fancy forced friendship was of no force.
These and such like doubtful thoughts, a long time smothering in
his stomach, began at last to kindle in his mind a secret mistrust, which,
increased by suspicion, grew at last to a flaming jealousy that so tormented
him as he could take no rest. lie then began to measure all their actions,
and to misconstrue of their too private familiarity, judging that it was
not for honest affection, but for clisordinate fancy, so that he began to
watch them more narrowly to sec if he could get any true or certain proof
to confirm his doubtful suspicion. While thus he noted their looks and
gestures and suspected their thoughts and meanings, they two silly souls,
who doubted nothing of tins his treacherous intent, frequented daily
each other's company, which drave him into such a frantic passion, that
he began to bear a secret hate to Egistus and a louring countenance to
Bellaria; who, marvelling at such unaccustomed frowns, began to cast
beyond the moon, and to enter into a thousand sundry thoughts, which
way she should olTcncl her husband: but finding in herself a clear
conscience ceased to muse, until such time as she might find fit opportunity
to demand the cause of his dumps. In the meantime Pandosto's mind
was so far charged with jealousy, that he did no longer doubt, but was
assured, as lie thought, that his friend Kgistus had entered a wrong point
in his tables, and so had played him false play: whereupon, desirous
to^ revenge so great: an injury, he thought best to dissemble the grudge
with a fair and friendly countenance, and so under the shape of a friend
to show him the trick of a foe. Devising with himself a long time how
he might bust put: away Kgistus without suspicion of treacherous murder,
he concluded at last to poison him; which opinion pleasing his humour
he became resolute in his determination, and the better to bring the
matter to pass he called unto him his cupbearer, with whom in secret
he brake the matter, promising to him for the performance thereof to
give him a thousand crowns of yearly revenues.
The manner of the death and last end of
ROBERT GREENE Maister of Aries
After that he had pond the former discourse (then lying sore sicke
of a smrfet which lice had taken with drinking) hoc continued most
patient and penitent; yea, he did with tcarcs forsake the world, renounced
aim v*vm
so that during all the time of hin Mdutr.^ fuhu h v,a .ih.w 4
space) hcc was neuer heard to nueare, uur, m N.t.phrmr flu* nam
of (Joel as ho \V,ts ncnwUmted to dn brlotr th.if fwte, ubtth ide
comforted his wehvlllers, to wv h<n\ uw;hulv the r.ut r *! t ;. u l did wn
in him,
lie coufoHsed IntnscltV that !u* \\.i-i lu-urr IMMI! f ,i Kr, hut s.itd that ,il
his painc was iu his hclly, And .tlthfjut^h lu* <tnfiuii4lK' -.utvurti, vrt
still his holly s\vehl ;uul nrurr Irft ii\\rlliun ^psun'il, \n\\l\ it ,,urld him
at the hart and in his face,
During the whole time* of IUM jiuiiu"*, h* routihiulh * allrd \\^n\ i i(ul t
and recited these H
Lnni fnrtfiiw /m* my wwtfM H//>. r-\.
/^n/ hauc w/'w'f* ;/ *;* w**,
Lnnt fnr$[iiic We 1 wv .w/r/ ,\mws, a/ iw //n f m'/.
(Lnnl) frmtutt //ir
77/v w/w (O /^,ir/) /\
And with such like godly scufnur:; hrr jM'iM*l ftu ttntr, rtiru lilt
he gauc vp the (Jlunst,
And tins is to hcc tioicil, that hi-i {mktiri'.r did MM! :,M iMMtlv nr.ikrn
him, but that lie walked to \m dtairr A t,u-k<* ;r,%tiur thr iiiidii hrlnrr
he departed, and thcu (hdnj* fcrblc) lavttr: liitu il*wur tn hr* l*r.t, ah
nine of the docke at ni^hi, a frieiui ni' his tuldr him. thai hi-* \Viir tu
scat him comincndatioiw, and ttmt jiher was in ^md hralth- \\hnrai tie
greatly reioiecd, coufoscd that lie Itad mightily \\mn\n^l hn, .uut \\i-ihnl
that hcc might see her before he derailed," \\linrij|m lt-rttit^ hi:*
time was but ahort), hoe (ooke JHHI arnl inke, ^ \\mtr hrt 4 Lrfirt nV ihi:i
effect.
Sweet Wife, us euer there was an\ jnl
betweeue thce and mee, nee thin hearer (my Ho-.i) i'n
of his debt, I owe him tame pound, ;iml Imt lur hu I lud
perished in the treete, l'orct and Inrinttr mv
done vnto thcc, and Almighty Owl luttir mm i
my soule. hurewetl till we inert in hrmm,
for on earth them uhult uctu-r
see me more. Thw 4, of
September t
Written by th
THOMAS LODGE
THOMAS LODGE
(? 1558-1625)
THOMAS LODGE was the son of a
Lord Mayor of London, and grand-
son of Sir William Laxton, the
founder of Oiindle School. He was
educated at Merchant Taylors'
School, and at Trinity College,
Oxford, where he graduated B.A.
in 1577 and M.A. in 1581. He was
entered at Lincoln's Inn, but
abandoned a legal for a literary
career, with intervals of adventure
and voyaging. He was never an
actor, as was at one time believed.
After a short experience of soldier-
ing, he sailed to the Canaries in
1588; in 1591 he accompanied
Cavendish to South America. About
1596 Lodge abandoned literature
as a profession and began to study
medicine, graduating M.I), at
Avignon in 1600 and at Oxford in
1602. Some time about 1600 he
became a Roman Catholic, and
the last twenty years or so of his
life appear to have been chiefly
devoted to the practice of medi-
cine, principally among his fellow-
religionists, lie died of plague in
,1625.
Lodge was a man of tireless
energy and immense versatility.
He wrote pamphlets, novels, plays,
poems, sonnets, satires, translations,
and medical works. In some of his
pamphlets he crossed swords with
Stephen Gosson, and defended
plays and players against that
redoubtable antagonist. I Us own
plays are neither numerous nor
important; he collaborated with
Greene to write A Looking Classc
for London and England (1591), a
curious but inartistic piece; liis
only other play is The Wounds of
Cwill War (1587), a heavy play
dealing with Marius and Sulla.
The best known of Lodge's ro-
mances is Rosalynde: Euphues 9
Golden Legacie, which he wrote to
relieve the tedium of his voyage to
the Canaries. Shakespeare after-
wards dramatized this romance
under the name of As You Like It.
His other romances include Euphues 9
Shadow and A Margarile of America.
Lodge's plays are poor, and his
romances more interesting histori-
cally than intrinsically; but his
poems, especially his short songs,
arc exquisite, among the best of his
clay. Claucus and Scilla t a more
ambitious effort, perhaps inspired
Shakespeare to write Venus and
Adonis. Lodge abandoned imagi-
native writing about 1596, though
in his medical days he translated
Josephus and Seneca and wrote a
Treatise of the Plague. As a literary
man bis desire outran his per-
formance ; but he will always be
remembered as the inspircr of one
of the most charming of Shake-
speare's comedies and as the author
of some of the daintiest songs in
the language.
[Sir Kclnuind Gossc, Seventeenth
Ntudiw, M. E, N. Fraacr,
Thomas Lode as a Dm ma list,
24 THOMAS 1,01 it ,T,
From "Rosnlvtulc: Munlmt'x"
J 1 it
Golden Lrgnrie 11
The H'mf //;//; M tit fit
At last, when the tournament eo;isnl, iho \ur.tlitu* !n;.m, ,tjj,| f| lr
Norman presented himself as it ehallen^er a'Mttr.t all umri'. luji j,
looked like Hercules when lie adunerd hini'.rlt .i^iiu.f \i lulu-i",, tV *
that the fury of his count<inunec;uu;i/etl all tlut I!WM uttnup? i*> r m ottjifcr
with him in any deed of activity: fill at l.tM a Itr-tv li.wUm nf thr mitmn
came with two tall mm that were lib M>n^ o! j>unj luuMntrut 1 , ,utd
comely personage, The eldest of the.se <lm^ Its-, nIi-i..ttiM- in tin- linn
entered the lust, and prcstiitetl hiuu.eli' t* the \*nuan, \\lin r.u.n h(
coped with him, and ;us a man that \\uuhl (t-iiuuph ui fit* 1 ',lu\ i hi%
strength, roused himself with sueli fury, fhaf u<t onU la- :,,nr hmi fhr
fall, but killed him witli (he weight nf lih eoipulrttt inn'.nn.v^: \\Iu|j
the younger brother seein,u', leapetl pmiently ititu the- pl, M r, ,iu.( thii-.h
after the revenge, assailed the Xornwn uifh Mu'h \ t tlMn, fiut , f| sr
first encounter he brought him to hh kneev, uhith rpi>I..-l -,u fhr
Norman, that, recovering himself, tear of ii;;ji,utr ltiulliu?: iir. ; k tirmth,
he stepped so sternly to the youn^ franklin, that ul\u\> him up in hi!
arms he threw him against the ground wt vinltMitl\, fliai hr hrnlr hr*
neck, and so ended his days with his ha.iher, At ilu-. luilu^Lr.l | f ,r
massacre the people murmured, and wore all in a il*rp p,,..,u uf pit\;
but the franklin, father unto ihese l never dun-ed ln>, iHiinfnum^
but as a man of a courageous rcHolmimt tonk up ilir IuuIu- nt hi-, Mm-!
without show of outward discontent.
All this while stood Rosader and aw ilii-i h;rnl\; uh... tiu(in r the
undoubted virtue of the franklin's mlmi, ali^hred nil hum hi, lii,,*-
and presently sat down on the jr ra!W| ; l!H | oiumwutlrd hi-i lux t., imtl
ott h ls boots making him ready to try the ^trni^ih nt thi% ilutnpinn,
Being furnished us he would, he clapped (he iuuUm nu ihr r.liMuldet-
and said thus:
" Bold yeoman, whose .sons have endat the trim of their W H with
honour, for that 1 sec Hum aeorneHt fortune wiih iiiieiur, .nut
C Wkh COUlCUt in hmoki "
A i , u
then fall with an honourable triumph;*
frklll a ^"W" t" ^ve him ntu-
THOMAS LODGE 25
of heaven; but at last, Love, willing to make him as amorous as he was
valiant, presented him with the sight of Rosalynde, whose admirable
beauty so inveigled the eye of Rosadcr, that forgetting himself, he stood
and fed his looks on the favour of Rosalynde's face; which she perceiving
blushed, which was such a doubling of her beauteous excellence, that
the bashful red of Aurora at the sight of unacquainted Phaeton, was
not half so glorious.
The Norman seeing this young gentleman fettered in the looks of
the ladies, dravc him out of his memento with a shake by the shoulder.
Rosader looking back with an angry frown, as if he had been wakened
from some pleasant dream, discovered to all by the fury of his countenance
that he was a man of some high thoughts: but when they all noted his
youth and the sweetness of his visage, with a general applause of favours,
they grieved that so goodly a young man should venture in so base an
action; but seeing it were to his dishonour to hinder him from his
enterprise, they wished him to be graced with the palm of victory. After
Rosader was thus called out of his immcnlo by the Norman, he roughly
clapped to him with so fierce an encounter, that they both fell to the
ground, and with the violence of the fall were forced to breathe; in which,
space the Norman called to mind by all tokens, that this was he whom
Saladync had appointed him to kill; which conjecture made him stretch
every limb, and try every sinew, that working his death he might recover
the gold which so bountifully was promised him, On the contrary part,
Rosader while he breathed was not idle, but still cast his eye upon
Rosalynde, who to encourage him with a favour, lent him such an
amorous look, as might have made the most coward desperate: which
glance of Rosalyncle so fired the passionate desires of Rosader, that
turning to the Norman he ran xipon him and braved him with a strong
encounter. The Norman received him as valiantly, that there was a
sore combat, hard to judge on whose side fortune would be prodigal.
At; last Rosader, calling to mind the beauty of his new mistress, the
fame of his father's honours, and the disgrace that should fall to his
house by his misfortune, roused himself and threw the Nunmm against
the ground, falling upon his chest with so willing a weight, that the
Nornutn yielded nature her clue, and Rosader the victory.
The death, of this champion, as it; highly contented the franklin,
as a man satisfied with revenge, so it: drew the king and all the peers into
a great: admiration, that so young years and so beautiful a personage
should contain such martial excellence; but when they knew him to
be the youngest son of Sir John of Bordeaux, the king rose from his
seat; and, embraced him, and the peers entreated him with all favourable
courtesy, commending both his valour and his virtues, wishing him to
go forward in such haughty deeds, that be ini^ht: attain to the glory of
his father's honourable fortunes.
Rosalviulf's Matlni>'al
i*
Love in mv ho,.ow like a !<*
Doth Kijtk his sueet;
Now with hi;* wiw*.' IK* P'' !V * ulf}l mr
Now uith hi** ieoi,
Within mine e\en he uuU hi-. ti-.t,
llwk'vl amulM fuv fru.in I'tr4-f;
My kls.son arr hi-i tliiU h\i,t,
And vi*t lu* rnhs inr oi sin tr-4,
All, wanton, will u\
And if I sloop, thru ju'ichnh hr
\VithprrftY Hipjit,
And nutkrs hin pilhm *U' uiv Kt*r
Tin* Hvrlnntt uh:ttt,
Strike I my luu\ hr tuiuv; fhr -.tuu^
'
He nutsic pl;iyn if tin I '.iiuti
lie lends nu* rvrr\ luvrh thwr,
Yet cmrl lio inv hrail duth Niiiu*,
n
\Vhisi, wanton, nfill y^!
Bine I with rosos rvrr\ <Liv
Will \vhip you hcttrt\
And bind \HU, \\itrn yttu louj* t*> p
ln)f your ollVurr;
I'll shut iniuo even tn keep you in*
I'll imike you fast it t'ttr your ;iu.
I'll count your power not worth ;t
Alas, whul horcly shull t win,
If he UiUMu nu:?
What if 1 beat the wanton hciy
With many si rod?
lie will repay me with annoy,
Because a Cod,
Thau sit them safety on my knee,
And let thy bower my boom In*;
Lurk in mine cycn, I like of
Cupid, BO them pity me,
Spare not but play thct*,
THOMAS LODGE
Montanus's Sonnet
Phoebe sate,
Sweet she sate,
Sweet sate Phoebe when I saw her;
White her brow,
Coy her eye:
Brow and eye how much you please me!
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent:
Sighs and words could never draw her.
my love,
Thou art lost,
Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat
By a fount;
Sitting by a fount I spied her:
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice:
Touch and voice what may distain you?
As she sung
1 did sigh,
And by sighs whilst that 1 tried her,
O mine eyes!
You did lose
Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Phoebe's flocks,
While as wool:
Yet; were Phoebe's locks more whiter,
Phoebe's eyes
Dove! ike mild:
Dovclikc eyes, both mild and cruel.
Montau swears,
In your lumps
lie will die for to delight her.
Phoebe yield,
Or 1 die:
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?
TUOUVi
Rosa A'lKilc/s I )rscnpti< MI
** i
Like to thr rlc.it in hir!<- ,\ .
Where ail unpetul "Inf, ih
t i -
Ol'iielt'iume oiottf t* hri luti
Whether tmi^Mni in f w
IIrith ho, t.ni I\M ,.ihtn!<
HIT <*t*s .uv 'iaftin- , a-f u?
Aiul I do ttvtuUr \\hrn 1
i^ii hu, \\titjK! 'Ju* 1 \\rt
Her eheeloi are like
That heatiiiiin \ufuf ,i k
Or like tin* silver mmvm
^
Hnj'h ho, Mr KM,,
Her lips are iikr t\u l\n
Whom rank", it!' hhr; tiri^jtiM
Within whieh tumfuh ;Itr I,ihu v^i !^ t -
Apt to cwU'e 4 deitv:
Heigh ho, uoiild filir urn/ tttutr,
Her neck, Hie u u Mati'ly |tun
Where Lo\e hiwM'Ii' init
To watch for ^laiu*i;i rvrr\
Frcnn hor (livtur ami vtnvil r\r-.
Uci^h ho, fair Ho;itl\ulc,
Her papn arc mitre; ot
Where nature ninuhlM tlu* ctrvv jj h. : ! t |
To feed pcrfVrtitm with ilw *,.!;
Heigh ho, wmthl slu* V\MV tmur,
With orient pearl, with nily ml,
With marble white, with napphir- h
Her body every way in fVil,
Yet soft in touch" and .swwt in vlnv:
Heigh ho, fair Utmalyudt*.
Nature herself her .shape atlmiwi,
The gods arc wounded iu her wi K ht
THOMAS LODGE
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalyndc,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalyndc.
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
THOMAS NASH
( 1567 - 1 60 1 )
THOMAS NASH was born at Lowe-
stoft in 15^7, and was the son of a
minister. As the Reverend William,
Nash chose scriptural names (Na-
thaniel, Israel, Rebecca, Martha)
for his other children, it; is likely
that he was a Puritan; hence, in
all probability, arose his Bohemian
son's antipathy to Puritanism. Nash
was educated at St. John's College,
Cambridge, which he dutifully
described as '* an university within
itself". After graduating B.A. in
1586, he probably visited Italy and
Germany, acquiring ti strong liking
for the former and tin equally
strong disrelish for the latter. By
1588 he had settled in London, and
julopted literature us ii means of
livelihood. His first; work was Tha
Anatomic of AlminUtiti (1589), a
kind of comic companion work to
Stubbed Ana tonne of Abuses. He
then Hung himself with charac-
teristic impetuosity into the Martin.
Marprelate controversy, lashing the
Puritans with merciless satire-
There is some doubt as to how
numy of the innumerable anony-
mous pamphlets were Nash's work,
but his nom de guerre seems to
have been Pasquil, and he almost
certainly wrote Martin's Month's
Miuck (1:589), The 'First Parts of
Pasqwl's Apologie (1590), and An
Almond for a Parrot (1590). On
the conclusion of this controversy
Nash declared war upon Gabriel
Harvey and his brothers, and a
series of most amusing pamphlets
followed, culminating in Have with
You 1o Saffron Waldcn (1596).
Three years later the controversy,
which had gone to scandalous
lengths, was stopped by the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury. Amongst
N ash's other pamphlets are The
Terrors of the "Night (1594), Christ's
Tears over Jerusalem (written in
1593, during a temporary fit of
repentance), and Lenten Sluffe
(.1599), an encomium of Yarmouth
and its red herrings. The Unfortu-
nate Traveller ) or the Life of Jack
Wilton (1594) is the earliest Eng-
lish picaresque novel. It attempted
a new kind of writing, which no
one again essayed until Defoe
Florence, and Rome, He spends l<w **'.*
some time in London, and ^tvtvs a pn<r. It
lively description of its nonrtv. ounplrtn! flits pl,t\ in *tdrr to
Real persons, such as Sir Thotu,^ piint it, or uhrthn it ua*i I
More, the Karl of Surrey, Frum'k 1 tor jmulwtinn m ?hr ;,r,u*,r,
of France, 'Jinwmns, and (*onu'litt'-; w</\ /nf If/// </,/ fn/*n
Agrippa are introduced, II in ar Niitittral nuvajiir, r, UHUI* MU
count of the loves of Surrey and if t'oataiin a t It.utoiu^ pnriu on
Gcraldine cuusetl many general iotis Npnw%uhii lii-. iu-.tl\ tM\rn lu'.t
of readers to inintakc lictmn for in riif'tftiUrn //n;uvn", \t*
fact. Jack Wilton is Koiucxvliaf unu'Ij Ir.-mt' 4 rrptnlMfr rfuttt
incoherent, hut is vividly written <r <iu-nir; hr \\ f ^ tmur r-i^intuuv
and shows close observation of fluu l'.luurlif\ 'rhnmth lir tud ;t
human nature. As a prose writer btffrr tcimntr, lu* nutr.u'ol tiitusrlt
Nash stands very hij^h; in f;ui, his to tin o*w*tujnii,uir 4 , our nt \\l\nm
prose is more like Sh;tkeHfK\tre*:4 t%ilird him " in^i-uunu'., imtmtunn,
than is that; of any of his* t'ontnu- fhnut, J.urtiun-, TUoui^-1 \,v,h M ,
porarics. He has the same inv- (H, II, MI Kn i*m
prcssibility, the Kurne delight in V7;nw./v \A/I; it,
inverted logic, and the a;ime in- Sniiih, 7'A,
exhaustible wealth of vocabulary, I f IU-MT
Y ** . Ti-rt-nm<^ .I'nJ*^*!*"*^****!! i t ' f M , ^ i r t f |
Ins two lavouritc authors and in thr tim** r*/ Sh^kf\^nt'\ Sir
models appear to have been Huhc- Walter liitn^li, /7ir- /'V?i;/n/i Vn/r/.j
Spring
Spring, the sweet Spring w the yiMt'n ilst ,tt iani^;
Then bloouus each thing, then iimidn d.iihr in A n\v\
Cold doth not tm^ the pretty liirth do i >tl
Cuckoo, JUK-JUR, i>n-wt% towitt* w*u,| '
The palm and may make country hotiset M V ,
Lambs frisk and play, the hepherdts pipr' lilt iuv,
And we hear aye hirda tune thin inrrry lav,
Cuckoo, jutf-jug, pu-we, to-\vitt;i' vvtwt
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies km ulir
xoung lovers meet, old wives a.jwmtmy nit
In every street these tunc our earn do K wt,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-vvod!
Spring, the sweet Spring!
THOMAS NASH 3*
Lament in Time of Plague
Adieu! farewell earth's bliss,
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can lly:
1 am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth
Gold cannot buy you health:
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on, uol
Beauty is but a (lower,
Which wrinkles will devour:
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye:
1 am sick, 1 must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave:
Swords may not: light with late:
Earth still holds ope her gate,
Come, come, the bells do cry:
I am sick, I must; die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonness
Tastcth death's bitterness:
HelFs executioner
I lath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, 1 must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Haste therefore eaclx degree
To welcome destiny:
32 THOMAS \\Sli
Hr.nnt i * MW ftrnf.t'nv
"
K.itflt Imi a plan * , ',?4'
\l\
t ,uu MI K, I irwf
I >f 4 |j,u r utru \ i u tj . f
Prom ^T:ie Uainrmnafc Tnivrllcr "
What is then* in /'Vw/vv to Iw Ku'nnl mjr I!MU tn /'?;,;/, w,/ { m
falshood iu tVHou.ship, pMi'vf :.lnnrufit\ t* 1*^,* tin tu.ut l<ui tr my
pleasure, to swearc ,/A /w /,/ nwt I lieu > ultru ,t nun , fumtnt", 4lr MM! H |?
For the idle Tniwlh'r, (I wr.wr um }>r tin* riMMlJtMiu.j I Inu- lun\rn
sonic that hnuo continual tlunv 'hv fhr r.p,t r rf ti,\ttr 4 !*.,"n t M-.ur-t
and when they cotnr limur, iltrv ha i ,tr Iii.l ,t Ijtf!,- iM<nr\\ l\nw iw
vndcr a hnnul 1'Vnu-h lut Lqi ,i fmiMr , H d.- wifh t!r *!M 4 m 'il r
strode in tlanr lou^ ilu.ilr:; tf ^,is' j^i^t, ,ih.l 4 p,J t f 1 n^Ii-Ji Mutu^rlv
Nought rk IKUU* thry prufiml hv thru iia.iril, -,\ir !rjin!\. 4? 4tn^?u>,l|
of the true ///w/<wv (dapc, ;m d knt;vr (l (U p nf U r.it- ^n:,.., f . w i w
from wine of Ortctwm \r,i, uu4 jtrt.tiliu-ttfun- tin. ,I!,M, i r.tVrtnr n|'
the pox an a pimple, to \vc,m* u vrWi jut, h HU fl.m 1 1< r, , m a ^,.Ikc
mckmcholy with their Arnnv InldriL
From fytthir what hrin^tih our Tt,iurlln? 4 -, ull uuutia hit of
the hiBhiou f an oklc drcpr pomtr a .luuiuudMr \Mmnu.-i , Mt | r
with short siring like tlir ilroppin^. f ,f a tiuiti u,.-^, t in-,,- U ili.nl anhlrt
conmung downe with a peak, lidiinac ,n |.i< .., tUr uuppn, .iui mf
oft before by the hrt^-luim- lllc a (aiilH ur nr.Krnl,n- ( ,i >uli- p.iirr
ot gascoyna which vn;athml wuhl makr n nttnttr oi wntum Jj"
kirtles, huge haiiRcrs that hatu- Iwlf a i'uw fml^ in ihr^t, ./ ']lri iluf Jl
meally descended from hallV a do/ni 1 >kri ,, ( | ir | IM sf t ,c-t hn , Iu fa
be as long <r an ahort an you ^ill: 5 no Kt i, k Knot uiib T.ttkrv i>imau
raucld; it Hho rt> lt hath a rap, like a t'.tinc, m,<*, au4 i, U nt , ,lr,pr
m his whole length, nor hath no mdi duaih in it, I li t.i.ctiu* .r, nnlv
llriSS^^ a 1>utrhliwntt d ? kr ; ! tt4tlr nnl ^ rf "!< -. 'r
dent; which scructh him (if you wit Lur t?" mv!tcir.t ili'of rhr
, ,
he cm ' ,* ' y r' V ^' C hi " 1 " 10a> P-'-l. Iv !, in
we
& m ( : , MlaueH)
it^s 1 *; r ilh il> for tc >' ;im - ii<ii - i '">
it be salt p,1tcher to cat with it all the vm- !,.; ...ul,
THOMAS NASH 33
which is more, they are poore bcggcrs, and lye in fowle straw cnerie night,
Italy > the Paraclice of the earth and the 'Epicures heaucn, how cloth
it forme our yong master? ft makes him to Ids his hand like an ape,
cringe his necke like a starueling, and play at hey passe repassc come
aloft, when he salutes a man. From thence he brings the art of atheisme,
the art of cpieurising, the art of whoring, the art of poysoning, the art
of Sodomitrie* The onely probable good thing they haue to kccpc vs
from vtterly condemning it is that it maketh a man an excellent Courtier,
a curious carpet; knight: which is, by interpretation, a line close leacher,
a glorious hipoerite, It is nowe a prime note amongst: the better sort of
men, when they would set a singular marke or brand on a notorious
villaine, to say, he hath becne in Italy.
With the Dane and the Dutchman 1 will not encounter, for they
are simple honest men, that, with Danaus Daughters, doe nothing but
fill bottomeles tubs, & will be drunke & snort in the midst of dinner:
he hurts himselfc only that goes thither, he cannot: lightly be damnd,
for the vintners, the brewers, the malt-men, and alewiues pray for him.
Pitch and pay, they will pray all day: score & borrow, they will wish
him much sorrow. But lightly a man is nere the better for their prayers,
for they commit all deadly sin for the most part of them in mingling
their drinke, the vinl tiers in the highest; degree.
Why icst I in such a necessarie perswasiue discourse? I am a banish t
exile from my country, though ncre liukt in consunguimtic to the best:
an Karle, borne by birth, but a begger now as thou seest. These manic
yores in Italy haue 1 lined an outlaw. A while I had a liberal! pension
of the Pope > but that lasted not, for he continued not: one succeeded
him in his chaire that cared neither for Englishmen nor his owne countri-
meiu Then was ,1 driuen to pick vp my crums among the Cardinals,
to implore the bencuolence & charitie of al the Dukes of l1aly t whereby
1 haue since made a poore shift: to Hue, but so Hue as I, wish my selfc
a thousand times dead.
("tun fnilrhim tnnhi, I tine me />m'te jntialo:
When I was banisht, thiuke I, caught my bane,
The sea is the nutiuc aoile to fishes; take lishes from, the sea, they
take no ioy, nor thriue, but perish straight. Bo likewise the birds remooucd
from the at re (the abode whcretoo they were borne), the beasts from, the
earth, and L from ting/antf. Can a lamb take delight to be suckled at the
breasts of a shc-wolfe? I am a lamb ntmrlsht with the milke of wolues,
one t hat , with 1 he Itlhiupuws inhabiting ouer against Mvw, feed on nothing
but scorpions; vse is another nature, yet ten times more contentiue
were nature, restored to her kingdom from whence she is excluded,
Belceue me, iu> mre, no bread, no lire, no water cloth a xnan anie good
out of his owne countrey. Cold frutes ncuer prosper in a hot aoylc, nor
if, ' 37
34
THOMAS NASH
hot in a cold, Let no mini for anir frauMtotte pltMMttc n
inheritance he hath nf ImMthim*; in fhc pl.uv \\hcfr her \\.i ,
thcc home, n\y yon^ '< lt '< ^V^ C ' IV ' ul|U ' :i P r uri ^ lv ln f ^ lr
thy fathers, WUKC olde in onerlnnUw* tin i;n>muii, ^^ n \\
the eyes of thykinred, Thedtuel and I am dr,\prufr, !IMI| U
tohe;uum 1 of being availe
4\\,n* the
'^*r of
in clone
; sectored
CHRISTOPHER K1ARLCHVK
iKU MMU.OWH was burn
in Canterbury on 6th Fob,, 150^
His father was ;i shoemaker bv
trade. He \vu educated at the
King's School, Canterbury, whieli
he entered in 1578, aiul al Henet
College, Canibrid^e (now Corpus
Christi). lie matriculated in i5Hi,
took his B,A, degree in i^,{, aiul
his M.A. in 1587, Kraneis Kett
the mystic ^ who wan burnt for
heresy in 1589, was a Fellow and
tutor of Benet Colle.i^ and may
perhaps have helped to develop
Marlowe's attitude towards re-
ligion, un attitude often de.seribed
as atheistical, but probably merely
unconventional. At the time of bis
mysterious death a warrant had
been issued summoning Marlowe
to appear before the Privy t'otmetl
to answer tin accusation" of blas-
phemy. It was not until three
centuries later that; the authori-
ties adopted Tiberius's principle -
deorum iniurias Ji$ cur<n\ After
going down from Cambridge, Mar-
lowe became a secret service a^ent
of some kind, and travelled abroad
in this capacity. The government;
specially recommended him for the
M.A. ( degree, which the college
authorities were apparently indis-
posed to grant. It is likely that
Marlowe settled in London in 1586,
and
(hat br Mooti jown! the 1 ,urd
iral's ('mt|un\ t*t' Pl,t\et:;,
Mi'err ,r a dtantaU'-I Jint.l lune
r<tu aitei hr- * anvi 4-; an
iibnuf Itts titr ut I.uiidou; \\ \v,ui
nunomed fbal hr u.ri \\itd and
lieentioiir., (Vff.HisIv lie \vurkrd
nK bn 1 in :4 -. \*Mf. lir \vtntr :a\
ayis loin 1 *t vUurlt \\eu* f't'eat
,*iUive?wr ; uu tin" :^4sH* He \v,i*
erifiei/ed lv \4\li, ;iU*l .iHarlanl by
(Ircesie and <fibiirl II,tt\c\; he
rtuutbeinl Sit 1 \V,ilt<* K.tlei^h and
il'in^htMtj wwui; his
\\\ ju
met three shady
I ; ri7er, Nii-huhtH Sketr 1 *, and Hohrti
Fotev, at itu* hitsr ot MU\mttr Hull,
%
wiilnw, in Ueptttinl, All ht-s three
eompanions \\<*re mmr or lev* rou<
ut*eted \\itii the :irnH uvivur,
Tlu*v retnatued ut MtMtmri Hull'M
1^1
from to ;utu to l> pjn n \vben a
(juarrel about tlu* pitvtwut of" t!te
bill broke tntt In'tueeu l*ri/rr aiul
Murlov\t\ In the rwir<* of \\hii"b
Marltnve \vai tifabbeit in tin* eve
and died on tin* nfut, J'Yi/iT W4>
pardcmed UM luvln^ ;ulrd in ^Ht-
defence, awl Hmt ttittit i^v;,
having been a dmrthwardru for
yearn, *Phi'J is the
eiul ueeoum cif Marlt*vu**H
a unearthed by iw
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
35
scholar, Dr. J. Leslie Hotson, in
1925. As the two eyewitnesses and
the murderer were men who would
not stick at perjury, we may be
allowed to doubt whether even yet
we have got the true story. The
story told in court, however, dis-
poses of various fables about mis-
tresses, bawdy serving-men, and
blasphemy, which were used by
Puritanical writers to point a moral.
Marlowe's earliest extant play is
Tamfawlaine the Great, which was
probably produced in 1587, It is
in two parts, but is virtually one
play in ten acts. At the outset of
the play Marlowe, with superb
self-confidence, proclaims himself
an innovator:
From jigging veins of rhyming
mother- wits,
And such conceits as elownagc,
keeps in pay,
We'll lead you to the stately tent:
of war,
Where you shall hoar the Scythian
Tamburlaine
Threatening the world with high
astounding terms.
With all its faults of violence and
bombast, Tcmlmrlaine was incom-
parably the best tragedy that had
as yet been produced on the Eng-
lish, stage. It is important not only
for its intrinsic merits, which are
considerable, but also as a piece of
pioneer work, It is the first play
to be written in blank verse, as
distinguished from mere unrhymed
decasyllabic lines, Marlowe's verse,
while dignified and majestic, is
much more supple and infinitely
less monotonous than that of any
of his predecessors. Tamburlaine
is obviously a young man's work,
but its exaggeration contributed to
its success, and its inlluence on
English tragedy was very great.
The Tragical History of Doc for
Faustus was produced in 1588. It
is not a well-constructed play,
being a series of disconnected
scenes rather than a connected
whole. Its text is not in a satis-
factory condition, and the comic
scenes, which contain extremely
poor fooling, are, it is believed
or hoped, by another hand. Yet
Doctor Faustiis is a memorable
play; the address to Helen and the
concluding scenes of the play and
soliloquies of Faustus are among the
best things not only in Marlowe,
but in all English drama. Goethe
said of this play, " How greatly it is
all planned!" and thought of trans-
lating it. In the great work of his
life he extended and embroidered
the Faust legend almost beyond
recognition; but it may be doubted
if he wrote anything that arouses
so much pity and terror as the con-
clusion of Marlowe's play.
The Famous Tragedy of the Rich
Jew of Alalta was produced about
1590. Its plot, unlike those of the
other plays, appears to have been
invented by Marlowe, hence, per-
haps, its wild extravagances. It is
a play of very unequal merits; the
first two acts are written in Mar-
lowe's best style, and the last three
are feeble and melodramatic. Bar-
rabas is scarcely a more life-like
figure than Mr. Punch, whom he
resembles in his taste for atrocities,
lie finally perishes by means of
<( something lingering with boiling
oil in it " which, he had prepared
for someone else. In spite of some
absurdities, this play has many
passages of noble poetry in it,
notably the opening soliloquy of
the Jew,
Edward II (c, 1591) is the most
flawless of Marlowe's plays, though
36
CIIRISTOI'IIKK MAUUNYK
not the most magnificent. It; it; hi:; ouupanr.nn. Awnnn Matlowo's
greatest work as a dramatist, but :Junn' pm-m,; (.'tune ff-tr with w
not as a poet. Marlnuc's j;niiiri <tn</ /*' ///v /"/v i-., ,r; \\.dion tailed
was in some respects epic ratlin* if, ** rlmnvlv \\nt\\\ ",
than dramatic; C'alliopt: ratlu v r M,uln\\r, alih*'M-h lu- di^.I *-^
than Melpomene war, the MUJU* \ntni<% \\,t:; S:UM{ nut mrn
whom he served. An historical piomi.r but ui pcn1unn,itu'\
play gave the poetical side uf his mMtrd blank \rj>\ tutu| ( *d b
genius ICSR scope; loadiniro Kdwant h* i *b tM M . rt ^ and \mfr SOUH* uf
.
// more than the other play:) b' to finest p,tv.,uM"i of dr.tiu.ttie jttHir\
admire what is lcs typical of the in the laacu.t *r. He \>\ iur*Mnp,uMhlv
poet's genius. It is obvious that the ( weate,,t of 1 'hale .pranks jv
JShakespeure had this play in miiul tloeessor-s lu-in*', ,\\ murli above
when lie was writing Kiintnl //, <>ivcue ( K\*l, and Trrlr as Shakr-
but he did not surpass his model, J'.pc.irr is, alo\r jorv.on ,uul Ile.m
The death-scene iu AlarloweV; play mont and Meti'lier, Lri th,ni
is one of the most moving scenes in thm* uumths <lier lli.m Shake
all drama, ancient: or modern, ,*;pe;uv in uetual a-e, he \\a<; vrar,,
Marlowe's other two plays art* older in development. He \ U s
of comparatively small import aucc, Shala^fUMt/s tua-.ter, and Shake
Both have been preserved in a jipeatv does not p.iv ,wv other ton
mutilated and mangled slate, The temnorarv' .1 vompluwnf like ibaf
Massacre at Paris h notable for paid to Marlmu- iu . Iv hw / t /Av //,
little except its strong auti^/atholic III, \ t S.', 'I o no pinuret i!o l\n
tendencies. In Dido, Ouwn of lish poru;\ aud tli aina oue no mtu-li;
Carthage Marlowe failed mainly and yet it' i-i nut nindy a : a nuncer
because he adhered too closely to that he ilcsrur-- in be
He dr:,er\e:} to br luvrd ami
reverenced a-; one ol our
Virgil, regardless of the didVrent
medium iu which he was working,
This again shows the epic nature of poets, Nor nut 4 it be thought that
Marlowe's genius. Mash cither he taught Shakespeare tunriv to use
collaborated in this play or, more blank \rrse; be tuimht Hbakrsprare
probably, finished it after Mur- and Krtuland iu his miiduv burs how
lowc's death. to urite about bi^li uuttrts In the
As a poet Marlowe sluntls almost wand style, Siiblimitv i-. bis Creates!
higher than as a dramatist, His ^ift to lim*Mi litmitmr, "
coUegc-cxcrciac vernion of ()vid l s [A, IL Httlten,
Amres and Ins litie-for-linc render- A, \\\ Vmtv,
mg of the first book of I.ucanV
I kanaka arc commonplaces but iu
f
//
tyle; |. A, Svm.nuK ti
Ins Hero and bander , which is u .v/wr\v /Wrrmm;' K. S,
recasting rather than a paraphrase AV/^v/uwr ,
/;/*
ot the poem of IVtunaeuB, he has /^rrr/ ( v < W e/ /;/* ////,/r s J
wri ten what may chum to he the Hotsou, The /Mi/A
aSW rl^ tlc moat in
E^abcthaii poems
} dclr1 au imita
acaii poems, r^r; a Coi^rim, A new rditi
ion n/^ T } dc ; lr1 ^ au imita - of RI;lrlmvc ' ; ' J aiMHMriiiK under t
tion of it, is pale and colourless in ^ncral cnlitorsliip *,|' R 1 1 , < *a H
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 37
The Deatli of Zenocrate
TAMBURLAINE
Proud fury and intolerable lit,
That dares torment the body of my Love,
And scourge the Scourge of the immortal God:
Now are those Spheres where Cupicl used to sit,
Wounding the world with wonder and with love,
Sadly supplied with pale and ghastly death:
Whose darts do pierce the Centre of my soul.
Her sacred beauty hath enchanted heaven,
And had she Hv'd before the siege of Troy,
Helen, whose beauty summoned Greece to arms,
And drew a thousand ships to Tencdos,
Had not been nam'd in Homer's Iliads:
Her name had been in every line he wrote:
Or had those wanton Poets, for whose birth
Old Rome was proud, but gazed a while on her,
Nor Lcsbia, nor Corinna had been nam'd,
Zenocrate had been the argument
Of every Epigram or Elegy.
[Tli c music sounds , and she dies.
What, is she dead? Techellcs, draw thy sword,
And wound the earth, that it may cleave in twain,
And we descend into th* infernal vaults,
To hale the fatal Sisters by the hair,
And throw them in the triple moat of Hell,
For taking hence my fair Zenocrate,
Casane and Theridamas to amis,
Raise Cavalieros higher than the clouds,
And with the cannon break the frame of heaven,
Batter the shining palace of the Sun,
And shiver all the starry firmament:
Vor amorous Jove hath snatched my love from hence.
Meaning to make her stately Queen of heaven.
What (Joel so ever holds thcc in his arms,
Giving thee Nectar and Ambrosia,
Behold me here divine Xenocrate,
Raving, impatient, desperate and mad,
Breaking my steeled lance, with which I burst
The rusty beams of Janus* Temple doors,
Letting out death and tyrannizing war:
To march with me under tins bloody Hag,
CHRISTOPHER \i\ki, o\\>:
And if lhou pitienf Tambui hiiur tin* !te,u,
Come down from he.ueu anil !i\r \\ult inr
TintUI\M\ -
Ah good my 1,01x1 he patient* -.he N <le,ul,
And all this ra^in^ eaunot uuKe her live,
If words misfit serve, our voire tud rent thr ,u,
If tears, our eves have watered all the ranlr
t
If grief, our murtheretl hearts ha\r straiiuni tottli
Nothing prevails, for she h de.ul iu\ l,inL
,\MWK! AIM:
l"or die is dead? i\\y \vords tin pieier im
Ah sweet Tlieridanuis, sa) ;^ no inoie.
Though she be dead, yet lei tur think -he
And fectl my mind that dies lor \\ant ni \wi :
Where ere her soul he, tttou slult r.tav with iur
KmbalmM with ('a.snia, Aiuhn^tr; aiul \l\irli,
Not (apt in lead Imt in a jiheet of^uld,
And till I die thou shalt \\m \\v iuirnM,
Then in as rich a tomb as Mausolu;;,
We both will rest and ltau one
Writ in as many several laimtia
# ' ^ f
As I have eoiu|uered kin^louis \\iih uu !i\\cml.
This cursed town \vilt 1 consume with iuv,
Because this place bereft me of mv hove;
The houses burnt, will look as if they wmiwM
And here will I set up her statua,
And inarch about it with my mournm| ramp,
Drooping and piniu K for Zenorrate, ' 7'//r . /,, v
(Tumhtirhiinc, /V. //, lines >i|' jt to.)
Helen
FAUSTUS
Was this the face that launched a thousand MhtjiM?
And burnt the topless Towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kixs: I A./VWJ Im ,
Her lips suck forth my soul, BCC wliere it Hie,;
Lome Helen, come give me my soul a^uhu
Here will I dwell, for heaven be in tht*e lijw
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 39
And all is dross that is not Helena:
1 will be Paris, and for love of tbee,
Instead of Troy rhall Wertenberg be saek j d t
And I will eombat with weak Mcnclaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed Crest:
Yea I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss,
O thou art fairer than the evening air,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars,
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless Semcle,
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Aretbusa's axur'd amis,
And none but thou shah be my paramour.
(Doctor Faustus, lines 1328-1347.)
The Death of Faustus
(The clock strikes eleven.)
FAUSTUS
Ah Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be dunm'd perpetually:
Stand still you ever moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come:
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day, or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent, and save his soul,
() lente, le.nte currite noctis eqiti:
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus must be daum'd.
() I'll leap up to my God: who pulls me down?
See, see where Christ's blood streams in the firmament.
One drop would save my soul, half a drop, ah my Christ,
Ah rend not my heart for naming of my Christ,
Yet will I call on him: oh spare me Lucifer!
Where is il now? 'tis gone: And see where God
Stretchcth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows:
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of God,
No, no.
Then will 1 headlong inn into the e,ufh:
Earth ftupo, no, il uill tiuf luil'onr inr;
You Ktiirs that rrii'.wd at m\ tufnifv*
Whose influence hath allnttnl dr.ifh *md hell,
Now draw up Faustu:i liKe a fui*:^ mi a (
Into the entrails of \on taluiu 1 /, ilmul,
That when you vomit t'nith into fin* .w *
My Ihubw muy is:uir tMnn yiur Munlv inMtttft .,
So that my noul mav hut ,i'. riul t htM\m;
Ah half the hottr i:s pa:4; 1 /'/ ;.- t ;/,-// v/;// irVl
"Twill a!) br past HIM HI:
Oh (Sod,
If thou \\ilt not Iwvc inn'i'v on n\\ :.onL
Si ,
Vet for Christ^ alu% \\ho-;r J^lootl h.ifh i.ii
Impose sonic cjut to my imT'i:auf pain,
Let I'uustuH live iu hell a thcw..iul vr.tr,,
A hundred thonsaiut, and at la%f IH- s4\nl.
O no ciul is liinitrd tu dauinnl MMjls,
Why wort thou not a crcafurr \vantnu* MM!
Or, why is this immortal thiU thou Im:it.;'
Mitytlttignnts wtirimuwist \vnc that trnr,
[rhioul Hhould fly from nu% and I hr r
'Unto sonic hrutLsh hcast; all IHM^, urr I
For when they die,
Their sonls arc soon disJtolvM in rlcmnif
But mine uwt live still to k* ph^tu^t in
Curs*d be the parent a that cn^rndct'tl me;
No FaimtnH, curse thy aclf, t-urse Ltuitct t
That hath deprived tiicc of the jnyu nf JMvrtj
, [ '/'/if cttn'k \fnfoth /;;N A-
U it stnkca, it striken; now body turn to air,
Or Lucifer will hear thce quielTto hell;
soul, be changed into UttUt wate
Aad foil into the Ocean, nc*er lc found;
My God, my (Jod, look not HO fierce on me;
(Kntw devils)
Adders, and Serpents, let me breathe a while:
Ugly hell gape not, come not Lndfer,
H burn my books, Ah McpUwtophclcH! {I^ml v/A
(Kntcr Chants.)
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE <
CHORUS
Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo's Laurel bough,
That sometime grew within this learned man:
Faustus is gone, regard his hellish fall,
Whose ficndful fortune may exhort the wise,
Only to wonder at unlawful things,
Whose deepness cloth entice such forward wits, *
To practise more than heavenly power permits,
(Doctor Faustits, lines 1419-1485.)
From "The "ew of Malta 55
.'
THE OPKNING SOLILOQUY
(Enter Karrabas in his Counting-house, with heaps
of gold before him.)
JEW
So that of thus much that return was made:
And of the third part of the Persian ships,
There was the venture summ'd and satisfied.
As for those Samintes, and the men of Uxx,
That bought my Spanish Oils, and Wines of Greece,
Here have I pursed their paltry silvcrlings.
Fie; what a trouble 'tis to count this trash.
Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay
The things they traffic for with wedge of gold,
Whereof a man may easily in a day
Tell that which may maintain him all his life,
The needy groom that never lingered groat,
Would make a miracle of thus much coin:
But he whose steel-barrM coffers arc crammed full,
And all his life-time hath been tired,
Wearying his finger ends with telling it,
Would in his age be loath to labour so,
And for a pound to sweat himself to death;
Give me the Merchants of the Indian Mines,
That trade in metal of the purest mould;
The wealthy Moor, that in the Eastern rocks
Without control can pick his riches up,
And in his house heap pearl like pebble-stones;
Ill R1S mill Ht \l\KUnYF
Receive them I'ur, .uitl ,rll thi'iu bv fhr unrhf,
BU&S of firry Op.iK S.tpphtn 1 ^ \t* *h\ -* <*
jacinths, tuid Tu|u.\ ruv. "*TII I iu t,j,U < t
Beauteous Unhir., sp,ullmi; huniMii.! ,,
Awl iurildsow* o*Mh '4uitr, *! <n '-I if pn*r,
As one of flu'iii itulilirt't'tuU t.it*'J t
And tit';' (\imvt nf (hi,, *|it,tnft\ ,
Mnv servo in prril <t utl.nut!\
a 1 *
To ratinnn i^tvaf Kif* ^ liul s l ! v|u If ^
This in tin- \v,uv \\hrrcitt MUM 4s tnv
And thus me thiuU ;4itiihl turu ni jtn
Their means nt tr.itiu' ftnin the \ul',Mt
Atul as tlteir \\r,iiflt iiu ira 4llu %n rn
Iniinitc riehrs in a liulf HHHU,
Hut now \HK\ !'t,intl'-i the vutttl
Into \vhat i*orner JHHTS m\ II,iU\u*' lull
llu t to the Kit'it? \iM Sir hnu "4,tiul'* the \uie-.
East and bv-South; uhv thru I hnpt* i\\\ :4n:.
f i ! t
I, Kent tor Kjjypt and the hniilrtiu^ 1 4r^
Are gotten up hy Xilu%' \\iiMhti^ Icml',
Mine Argcisy t'mut Alr\uidti4 4
Louden with Spur ;uul Stlk%, itou utidei -^ul,
Arc smoothly tdidiim douu l\ ( \uuhf shittc
* t *
o Multa, through our Mrilitt'iiantMu :.ri,
From c( llcro and
On Hellespont tfuiltj, of true lo\r\i
In view and opposite t\vo eities .stood,
S/,)
The one AhydoH, tlie oilier Scsttn hifjit,
At Sc8toa> Hero dwdt; Hero iltr fiiir,
WhomyounR Apollci courted lor her luiii\
And offered UB a dower hm Intrniuit throw*,
Where she should wit for men to ji;axi* upon,
The outside of her tfarmtriUs went of lavuu
The lining purple ilk with gilt stiit'H dr,i\ut,
Her wide slccvcn Rrccn, and bordered with a j;r<
Where Venus in 'her naked glory HI rove,
To please the carclewH ami disdainful even
Of proud Adonis that before her lies.
CHRISTOPHER MAKLOWK 43
Her kirtlc blue, whereon was many a slain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she wore a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath.
Her veil was artificial flowers and loaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives.
Many would praise the sweet smell as she pass'd,
When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast,
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And beat from thence, have lighted there again,
About her neck hung chains of pebble stone,
Which lightened by her neck, like Diamonds shone.
She wore no gloves, for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Buskins of shells all silvered used she,
And branched with blushing coral to the knee;
Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and gold,
Such as the world would wonder to behold;
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which as she went would chirrup through the bills.
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,
And looking in her face, was stricken blind .
But this is true, so like was one the other,
As he imagined I lero was his mother.
And oftentimes into her bosom Hew,
About her naked neck bis bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And with still, panting rock'd, there took his rest.
So lovely fair was Hero, Venus Nun,
As nature wept, thinking she was undone;
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft:
'Therefore in sign her treasure suffered wrack,
Since Hero's time, hath half the world been black.
Amorous JLeander, beautiful and young,
(Whose tragedy divine Musaeus sung)
Dwelt at Abydos: since him dwelt there none,
For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
I Us dangling tresses that were never shorn,
Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,
Would have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece
To hazard more than for the golden Fleece,
CHKISTOI'HI'K MAKUWI'
Fair Cynthia vdshrd hi-; ,utu. turhf !< hrr f.pim**,
GriefinakeM IUT pair, hn-.w.e -.In- nuiu-i nt thru*,
Ui$ hotly was an ,%fr,ii^'hf ;n 1 'u* r* * v\,md,
* 1
Jove miftht have MppM <wt \n t,u in<m lit , luiul,
Even UH delicious iw,t w to flu* t.r.t\
Ho was his neck h f"iu liitus .ttnl Mtrp.i .-.cd
The white of lVInp;i j.hnnW*"!'. I i Midi! trll \<\
How smooth his lm*,N \^r H ami li\\ \Utffr ftr, hcll
And whose wtwnrul litrt i did iinpiini
TlnU h<MVcitly path, \ufli in.inv .1 niUMii', dtnf,
Tlrat runs abti^; his I>,u'k, httt tnv nidr \\n\
("an Irardlv lla/n forth flu* luvr>. <t inro,
* ft
Much loss of powrrlul j*tuj'i: Irl if Mitli^r,
Thai tnv stack intisr i.itu*:* ot Lranitt'iV* r\c"* t
* *
ThoHc <iricnt (dtiTkt* untl tip's rvmlitu* hi-*
That leapt into the \vjttor fur a li /,
Of lii$ own h;ul<\v, liiid drspi-iiM! in.ttn
Died ere he rnuld nijo\ I!H" 1m << of
** 1 1 1
lludwikl Ilippolytus h candor %mi
Kmtiuoured of his beauty had hr
Ilia preset ice nuulc the nulri.t pt
That in the vast ttphuulish mntiy d\\rli l
Was mov'd with hint^ ;UH! fur hi:, favour r
Some swore he was a maid in iiunV; auitr,
For in his looks were all that nirit <ltv.iiv,
A pleasant smiling du'ck, a :i|H\tktiit*; ryv.
A brow for love to hantfuef ruyally,
And such ;ut ktunv he war* a man wuuht nay,
Lcamler, thon art nuult* for ainonnm pUv;'
Why art; thou not in love, and lovM of altf
Though thou he fair, yet he no! thine mvn thtall
_Thc men of wealthy Sestos, every je.ir,
(For his sake whom tlu-ir ModdciH lieltl ,un ile.ir,
Rose-cheeked Adonis) kept a Kolenm feast,
Thither resorted many a wuiuleriujt; ^ueM,
To meet their loves; auch as Inul ntmr at all,
Came lovers home from thin ^reat fcHtix
For every street like to a Firmament
Glistered with breathing stars, who \vhcre tho>
frighted the mclanelioly earth, \\hich d
Eternal heaven to burn, for so it; 8cemM
As if another Phaeton had #,t
The guidance of the aun^ rich chariot,
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 45
But far above the loveliest Hero shin'd,
And stole away th' enchanted ga/xr's mind,
For like Sea-nymphs enveigling harmony,
So was her beauty to the slanders by.
Nor that night-wand'riug pale and watVy star
(When yawning dragons draw her thirling car
From Latmus mount up to the gloomy sky,
Where crown'd with blazing light and majesty,
She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood,
Than she the hearts of those that near her stood,
Even as, when gaudy Nymphs pursue the chase,
Wretched Ixion's shaggy footed race,
Incensed with savage heat, gallop amain
From steep Pine-bearing mountains to the plain:
So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,
And all that vievAl her, were enamour 'd on her.
And as in fury of n dreadful light,
Their fellows being slain or put to flight,
Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead strookcn,
So at her presence all surprised and tooken,
Await the sentence of her scornful eyCvS:
I le whom she favours lives, the other dies.
There might you see one sigh, another rage,
And some (their violent passions to assuage)
Compile sharp satires, but alas too late,
For faithful love will never turn to hate.
And many seeing great princes were denied,
Pined as they went, and thinking on her died.
On this feast; day, cursed clay and hour,
Went I lero thorough Sestos, from her tower
To Venus temple, where unhappily,
As after chanced, they did each other spy.
So fair a church as this, had Venus none,
The walls were of discoloured Jasper stone,
Wherein was Proteus carved, and overhead,
A lively vine of green sea agate spread;
Where by one hand, light headed Bacchus hung,
And with the other, wine from grapes out wrung.
Of Crystal shining fair the pavement was,
The town of Sestos called it Venus glass.
There might you see the gods In sundry shapes,
Committing heady riots, incest, rapes:
For know, that underneath this radiant floor
Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower,
CHIUSTOPHIH \I\RUHYK
Jo\cslily Mealing Itntn hi>, '.v-tet 1 '.
To dally \\iih td,!un t ,unme<i,
Ami !nr his lu\r l',utop,t hrllmust 1 ,* Intnl.
Aiul tmnhhni* \U(h ihr K,tnhou ui 4 i Intul
DloOtUjlUtlWl* \1,U' hr.tUW, the Moll urt,
Which limping \ul*",nt ,ml hr. < V h*|v. \ri
Love kindling hn\ to but u %tn Si t<\\ ts . t- "J'i
Sylvunus \\rrpitu* (of flu* linrh !M\
'Unit now is tuntnl into a i \ptr-, iirr\
Utnlcr \vho>c ?*huli* thr \\oui *,
And in the i!ii*l;4 ;i :4l\rr alf.u r^t
'Ilicrc Horn tf.u'ntu'iw, tintlr-.' t-'
Veiled in the p'tniwi, \'tl!lli: !trf r\c tti-
And luutirMK tlu*\ opnirtl a% 'Jir jn-.f"
TIicwv (ivsv LOVC'N artou with tl$r !ttl*lrti IHM<!
And tints UMndi'r U.IN I'liatuottH'il.
Stono still he Moml, ainl incnunir lir i%i/ril
Till \vifh the lire tlul trotn hi% uitjni'nanrr l
Relenting IlrroV; j^rntlr IUMH u,r* ;4mnl,
Such foive and \erttic lutli ,111 .uutuou^ 1MK,
It lien ntt in our pinvc-r to lovo or h.ifr,
For will in us is ovtM^ntlnl !v t.ite,
When two are strip! lun;: eie the nww br'.n
We wish that one should IUM*, the mhei \un;
And one cspo^ially do \\e jllrvf
Of two gold In^niH like in eadt rr
The reason no man kmmti let it .-it
What \vc bch(UI in eeuHuml h\ ottr eyr:*.
Where both detiherute, the hn ; e in sili^iu,
Who ever loveit, that loved ntif ,t Hrr,i j^lur 1
^ lie kuoclM, but unto her devumlv jirayM;
Chaste Hero to hernelf tints mil'tly will:
Were i the saint he wurohips, ! \vultl hear him,
And as ahe npake those words, came nouu^lul ne ir hini f
He started up, she bitched as one ashanietl;
Wherewith Unmder ituteli more wan infUmnl
He touched her hand, in ionrhing it nhe trnuhltnl,
Love deeply grounded, luirdly in diwembled,
These lovers purled by the toueh ol handti,
True love is mute, and oft umami .stands/
1m while dumb *( K m their yieldinfr I H %UIM
Ihc air with spark of living tire was Hpanjd
And night deep drenched m misty Aelieron
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon
C 1 1 R I S r F OP1 1 K R M A Rl .OWE 47
Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's clay).
And now begins Leander to display
Love's holy lire, with words, with sighs and tears,
Which like sweet music entered Hero's ears,
And yel at every word she turned aside,
And always cut; him olT as he replied,
At last, like to a hold sharp Sophister,
With cheerful hope thus he accosted her.
Fair creature, let me speak without: o Hence,
1 would my rude words had the influence,
To lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine,
Then shouldst thou he his prisoner who is thine.
Be not unkind and fair, misshapen stulF
Are of hehaviour boisterous and rough,
X) shun me not, but hear me ere you go,
God knows 1 cannot force love, as you do.
My words shall be as spotless as my youth,
Full of simplicity and naked truth.
This sacrifice (whose sweet; perfume descending,
I'Yom Venus' altar to your footsteps bending)
Doth testify that you exceed her far,
To whom you oll'er, and whose Nun you are.
Why should you worship her? her you surpass,
As much as sparkling Diamonds (luring glass.
A Diamond set in lead his worth retains,
A heavenly Nymph, hclov'd of human swains,
Receives no blemish, but oft-times more grace,
Which makes me hope, although I am but base,
Base in respect: of thee, divine and pure,
Dutiful service may thy love procure,
And I in duty will excel all other,
As thou in beauty dost exceed love's mother.
The Passionate Shepherd to his Love
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods, or sleepy mountain yields.
And we will sit; upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their Hocks
By shallow Rivers, to whose foils
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
CIIIUSTOHtKH
And 1 xull nula* tlirr lnK i Kn-.
And a tlinti'jiid tMiM'.tttt po .ir,,
A dtp of tloxu'tX and ,t Uitlr,
Kmhroidrmi all \\ilh lra\r; til \I
A j.<o\\n wadr of llir twr.f \\unl,
Winch from our jnrfH Lamb-* \u-
Fair lined slipper* tot the mid,
With bmilni of llif |>uir'4 >*nUt,
llr.
pull,
A bolt of .straw am! t\y
With (Wai d,i;jv; ;uil Atulci i r.fiu
And if tlu*:;o j'4ristirr:i usuv tlirr u
Come live with me, ;ul tu* ni\
shall
F<n 8 iliy dc'livJU each M,i'v .lunt
If tlu'He dc 4 li^ltlH thy tnuut taa
Then live with nu% ;ul lio inv
nr,
,uul
M *>
OK) MAS KYI)
(1558
THOMAS Kyn was the on of a I ,
clon scrivener, and was ciluc
at Merchant Taylors' School That
is almost nil that wo know of hw
life apart from his writings; we do
know, however, that he \vaa u
friend of Marlowe, and m 15^3
was accused of sharing; Marlowe*^
heterodox (probably Unitarian)
views on religion. He \va ap-
parently not at either University,
and at an early age adopted litera-
ture as a profession. He published
a translation from Tasso, which he
named The Houscholdm Pltih-
sophie, and a pamphlet on a recent
murder, The True the of the nmt
wicked and secret Mwthcrinj* of
John Brewen, Goldsmith, of London,
committed by his owne wife, lie
also translated a French tragedy by
Robert Gamier, Pompey the Great)
1 594 )
Itis
a
tfi |nuthuii<*u, 77if"
also Invn atttilnittnl to him on
hat flttuity rxidrtuv, Ilin
prinripul work, or at any utr hin
prinnpal cxtunt work, ir
7>v/4'/v//V, ctwhtinitt!; //ir*
end ttf I fan Itnmtin ttntl
with'tlw pilijut ttwlh
ywf>. Thm plu> , u
uuirk iu lint'JjHh tintuuiiic Uiutory,
W:IH probably xvritttm ubottt 1580;
on ucgauvu evidriur it \vuti *H*r
tainly writtm bi*ioro lltr drIVat of
the Amuulu in 15X8, It b full of
horrors, \vhich arc thus admirably
Hninnrariwd by the Oluwt tit the
end of the play;
Horatio numtor'd by HIM fatht*r*
bower;
Vild Hcrberine by I
THOMAS KYD
49
False Peclringano hang'd by quaint
device;
Fair Isabella by herself misdonc;
Prince Balthazar by Belimperia
stabb'd;
The Duke of Castile and his wicked
son
Both done to death by old Ilicro-
nimo;
My Belimperia fall'n, as Dido
fell,
And good Hicronimo slain by him-
self.
Tn spite of, or perhaps because of,
its orgy of bloodshed, The Spanish
Tragedie was immensely popular
and had a long life, giving pleasure
not only to the audiences of the
'eighties, but to younger and more
sophisticated generations of play-
goers. Several of its phrases be-
came proverbial. Those who, like
Ben Jonson, were self-constituted
directors of public taste, tried in
vain to wean the public from their
liking for this crude old pUvy.
Jonson himself, in his younger
clays, wrote some additions to it;
whether they arc the un-Jonsonian
additions which we possess or
whether these arc the work of
Webster is an unsolved and prob-
ably an insoluble problem. The
success of The Spanish Tragcdie
caused the production of a com-
panion-play usually called The Firs I
Part of Jcronimo. A sequel to The
Spanish Tragcdie was obviously
impossible, as so many of its
dramatis per some were dead; so
Jeronimo, though written later, is a
forerunner to the other play, jfero-
nimo is a crude, ill-written play, so
absurd that some critics interpret
it as intentionally so. It is almost
impossible to believe that Kyd
wrote this burlesque upon his own
work; and there are reasons for
supposing that this play was not
V-UL. n.
written until after 1600, when Kyd
had been dead some five years.
There is a considerable body of
evidence, too long to summarise
here, that in 1588 or thereabouts
Kyd wrote a Hamlet^ some passages
of which possibly survive in the
1603 quarto edition of Shake-
speare's play. There is no Eliza-
bethan document whose loss is
more to be regretted than the loss
of this old play; for no other docu-
ment would throw more light on
Shakespeare's mind and art. There
is no doubt that Shakespeare had
an older play in front of him when
he wrote Hamlet, and small doubt
that that play was Kyd's*
Kyd is one of the most impor-
tant and one of the least interesting
of Shakespeare's predecessors. His
work has the historic but not the
intrinsic value of Marlowe's. His
sombre and Senccan masterpiece
set the fashion in the early 'nine-
ties for tragedies of the type of
Titus Androniciis, and at a later
date for plays like those of Webster
and Tourneur. Though its plot is
fairly well constructed and its
dialogue more human than that of
Marlowe, it is not great literature.
" Sporting Kyd ", as Jonson humor-
ously called himthe epithet being
highly inappropriatedid, however,
contribute certain valuable elements
to early drama, such as a better plot
and good stage situations. Marlowe
influenced Shakespeare the poet,
and Kyd influenced Shakespeare
the dramatist.
[F, S. Boas, The Works of
Thomas Kyd\ ]. W. Cunliffe, The
Influence of Seneca on English
Tragedy; W. H. Widgery, The
First Quarto Edition of Hamlet,
x6o3\ 7- A. Symonds, Shak$pere*s
Predecessors."]
28
THOMAS KYI)
T'ie Spanish Traga : 'ie
(Ktttcr the Glinxf of ANMUKX, timt with hittt HI-I'I-N<;M,)
When, this eternal! substance uf my t
Did Hue imprisoud in my \viwtw i
Each in their function wcniinft thrrs nrni<\
I was a Conrticr in the Sfitwibh Court;
'My ntunc was D<w /fW/vw, tnv diiurnt
Though not ignoble, yrt intVnonr funv
To tmU'ious fortune of my trtuicr youth :
* i k ,
For there in prime ami pritlo cf all my ym
By ilnctious t*ruia% ;uul <t(*s<*niin^ luu<%
In secret I posscttt u wurthy I)anu\
Which hi^ht K\vrete lM*imprria by name:
But in the hanient <f mv mimcr !OV<*N,
i
Deathea winter nipt the hhuiswnrs uf IUY b
ForccMng clinoirc hot \vi\t my lout* aiul mr;
For in the lute conflict with
My valour drew me into ila
Till life to death made passage through my \ummlcs:
When I wan shunt*, my soulc dent'endrd nfrai^lit
To passe the llcnvin^ Htreame of Achwun\
But churlish Cfwnn onely Boat -man there,
Sayd, that my rites of buriall not perforuuio,
I might not sit amon^nt his j>;tHujj,'cr:
Ere fiol had slept three ni^htes in Thrtis lap,
And slukt his amoaluntf Chariot in her iloud,
By Don Horatio our Knight-Marslwls sontu*,
My "Funerala and <>hc<iuic were done:
Then was the Ferrkmm of I lell content,
To p'^se me oner to the ttllmie stroiul,
That leades to fell Auwum ougly waue:
There pleasing (Mm<m with homed npearh,
I past the perils of the formoat porch,
Not farrc from hence amidnt ten thouHund oult*,
Sate Minos, Eacus, and Rh adamant:
To whom no sooner gan 1 make approcli,
To craue a pasport for my wand ring (Jluwt,
But Minos In grancn leaucs of Lottcrie,
Drew foorth the manner of my lyfc and death.
This Knight (quoth he) both iiu'd and dyed in lone,
V
THOMAS KYD 5:
And for his lone tryed fortune of the Warrcs,
And by Warrcs fortune, lost both louc and life.
Why then sayd Eacus, conucy him hence,
To walke with Loners in our ficldes of louc,
And spend the course of cucrlasting time,
Vnder grcenc Mirtle trees and Cypcrs shades.
No, no, sayd Rhadamant, it were not well,
With louing soules, to place a Martialist;
He died in warre, and must to Martiall lleldes:
Where wounded Hector Hues in lasting paine,
And Adiillis mermedons do secure the plaine.
Then Minos, mildest censor of the three,
Made this deuice to end the difference.
Send him (quoth he) to our infcrnall King:
To cloome him as best seemcs his Maiestic:
To this effect my pasport straight was drawne,
In keeping on my way to Plulos Court,
Through dreadfull shades of cucr glooming night:
1 saw more sights then thousand tongues can tell,
Or pcnnes can write, or mortall hartes can thinkc.
Three wayes there were, that ou the right hand side,
Was ready way vnto the foresaid fieldcs,
Where Loners Hue, and bloodic Martialistcs:
But either sort containd within his boundcs,
The left hand path declining fcarefullic,
Was rcadie downcfall to the deepest hell,
Where bloodic furies shake their whippes of stcele,
And poorc Ixlou tunics an cndlcs wheele:
Where Vzurers arc choakt with melting gold,
And Wantons are imbraste with ouglie Snakes,
And Murderers grceuc with cuerkilling wo uncles,
And Periurdc wightcs scalded in boyling lead,
And all foulc sinnes with tormentes ouerwhelmd,
Twixt these two wayes, I trode the middle path,
Which brought inc to the fairc EKzian grcene:
In midclst whereof, there standes a stately Towre,
The Wallcs of Brasse, the Gates of Adamant:
llecre finding Pluto with his Proserpine,
I shewed my Pasport humbled on my knee:
Whereat faire Proserpine began to smile,
And begd that onely she might giuc my cloome.
Pluto was plcasd, and scald it with a kisse.
Foorthwith Reuenge she rounded thee in th* care,
And bade thee lead me through the gates of Horror.
Then know Andrea, that ihou art armed,
Where thou shall see the author of thy doalh
Don 'Balthazar the Prince of l*wtiH$ih\
Depriu'd of life by IM-impcria:
Ileerc sit we downe to see the inisterie,
And sernc for Chnnis in this Trugedie,
[Horatio, Mioronyiuo's son, is murdered while with his mintrevi
Bclimperia, by his rival Balthtr/ur and Holiniporiji'is brothor,
Lorenzo, Jlieronymo tfoos mad when he disroverN In:;
son's body. |
JMy soune, and \vhat *s a sonner
A thing begot \vithin a pairc of minutes, there about:
A hunpe bred vp in darkenesse, and doth ticntt*
To ballaee these light; creatures \ve call \\"oaien:
And at nine moneths ende, ereepes loorth to li^ht,
What is there yet in a soime?
To make a father dote, raue> or runne ntad,
Being borne, it ponies, erye,s, and broods tooth,
What is there yet in a sonne? He must In* fed t
Be taught to goo, and speake l> or yet.
Why might not a man low: a CalfeVs welt?
Or melt in passion, ore a frisking Kid,
As for a sonne, me thinkes a, young Bacon,
Or a line little smooth Horse-colt
Should mooue a man, as tnnch as doth a sonne,
For one of these in very little time,
Will grow to some good vse, where as u Honw%
The more he grower in stature and in yetnvs,
The more vnsquurd, vnbeudled he sippeaivs,
Reccons his parents among the nmeke of fooler,
Strikes eare vpon their heads with his mad ryots,
Makes them lookc oldc, before tltey meet with age:
This is a sonne: And what a losse were ihw, eonsideiTtl trulv
THOMAS KYI)
S3
but my lioratio t grew out of reach of these
Insatiate humours: He loued his louing parents,
lie was my contort, and his mothers ioy,
The very arme that did holdc vp our house,
Our hopes were stored vp in him.
None but a damned murderer could hate him:
Uc had not scene the backe of nineteenc ycere,
When his strong arme vnhorst the proud Prince
And his great niindc too full of Honour,
Tookc him vs to mercy, that valiant, but ignoble Portingale.
Well, heauen is heauen still.
And there is Nemesis and .Furies,
And things called whippes,
And they sometimes doe mccte with murderers,
They doe not alwaycs scape, that's some comfort.
I, 1, J, and then time steales on: and steales, and steales
Till violence Icapcs foroth like thunder
Wrapt in a ball of fire,
And so doth bring confusion to them all.
(/, / 'ties 1869 1910.)
RICHARD HAKLUYT
(c. 1553-1616)
RICHARD HAKLUYT was born about
1553, and was a member of an old
Herefordshire family which was
probably of Welsh origin. He was
educated at Westminster School,
and in 1570 proceeded to Christ
Church, Oxford, where he gradu-
ated B.A. in 1574 and M.A. in
1577. He took holy orders as soon
as he reached the statutory age.
While he was still a schoolboy, his
cousin of the Middle Temple, who
bore the same names as himself
and who is frequently confused
with him, directed his attention to
the study of geography, navigation,
and exploration; and from that
time a love of these subjects became
his ruling passion, He studied
them at Oxford and lectured on
them, possibly at Oxford too; he
wished to found a lectureship on
them, certainly not at Oxford, more
probably at RatclifFe or somewhere
else where seafaring men congre-
gated. Hakluyt's interest in navi-
gation and kindred subjects was
always practical, not academic. In
1582 he published his first work,
Divers Voyages touching the dis~
cover ie of America at id the Hands
V
adjacent unto the same.. In the follow-
ing year he went to Paris as chap-
lain to the English embassy, and
remained there for live years. This
appears to have been all the travel-
S4 RICHARD HAiailYT
ling which oar greatest editor of in ifo,|. His last publieation was a
travels experienced personally. A translation from the Portuguese,
particular Discourse concerning JIV,v- which he named ! V;/;///w tichly
tern Discoveries \ws written in 1 584, valued. lie died on .\\n\ Nov.,
but not printed until almost three ifno.
centuries later. In 1586 he became There is little doubt that the his-
a prebendary of Bristol, and re- torian I'Vomle^with Hie. best inten-
turncd to England two years later, lions, did a disservice to Slaklnvt
In 1589 appeared the first edition when he called his !>;reat \vork
of his great work, Tlw J*riuci/wl u the prose epic of the modern
Navigations, Voyages, Tni/jhjuc^am/ English nation M , 1 lis phrase jras
Discoveries of ///i tinglfsh Nation, sent many i reader to the hook in a
made by sea or over-land to ihc mood of pleasurable anticipation,
remote and farthest distant quarters which rapidly disappeared when it
of the earth, at any lime within flic was discovered that the modern
compasse of these J$ot> y<m (one Kn<>lish epie included numv Latin
volume). The second edition, very documents, and numv patents,
much amplified, was in three letters, instructions, and .so cm, ;u;
volumes, whieh appeared rcwpec- well as truly epic narrative!"., lint
tively in 1598, 1599, and 1600, and when the nature of Itakluyt's
carried the record clown to the year eyelopean compilation in under -
of publication. Vol. 1 deals with stood, disappointment will vanish
voyages to the, North and North- in delight, There are few books
east, and contains 109 narratives; which better repay the exercise of
Vol. II treats of voyages to the that art which out'jit to he euhi
South and South-east, and eon- vatetl by all reader;;, lint in which
tains 165 separate pieces; Vol. Ill lew confess their proficiency the
has 243 different narratives, coin- art of skipping. The narrative?; of
meneing with the fabulous dis- many of the early explorer;*, wnt ten
covery of the West Indies in in many cases by an nnknnun hand*
1170 by Madoe, and including are unequalled as tales of heroism
the voyages of Columbus, Cabot, plainly told, Uafduyt was an ideal
Frobisher, Drake, Hawkins, and editor, a man of tireless energy and
Raleigh. There arc in all, therefore, assiduity; and though an excellent
5 17 separate narratives, It is almost writer he kepi himself in the back"
unnecessary to say that Hakluyt's ground, with admirable jieli' -denial,
life was uneventful; had it not lie effaced himself and lei his
been he would not have found time documents r.peak for themselves.
to edit a compilation of this magni- lie has not written our national
tude. He was appointed rector of epic, but has left enough material
Wetheringsett in 1590, prebendary for a whole epic cycle, ' All that is
of Westminster in 1602, archdeacon wanted in a 1 loiner and a tiehnol of
in 1603, and chaplain of the Savoy llomeridu'.
RICHARD HAKLUYT 55
From <c Navigations ? Voyages^ Traffic} ues,
and Discoveries^
THE ARMADA
Upon the 29 of July in the morning, the Spanish Fleet after the
foresaid tumult, having arranged themselves again into order, were,
within sight of Grevcling, most bravely and furiously encountered by
the English; where they once again got the wind of the Spaniards; who
suffered themselves to he deprived of the commodity of the plaee in Calais
road, and of the advantage of the wind near unto Dunkirk, rather than
they would change their array or separate their forces now conjoined
and united together, standing onely upon their defence.
And albeit, there were many excellent and warlike ships in the
English fleet, yet scarce were there 22 or 23 among them all which
matched 90 of the Spanish ships in bigness, or could conveniently assault
them. Wherefore the English ships using their prerogative of nimble
stirrage, whereby they could turn and wield themselves with the wind
which way they listed, came often times very near upon the Spaniards,
and charged them so sore, that now and then they were but a pike's
length asunder; and so continually giving them one broad-side after
another, they discharged all their shot both great and small upon them,
spending one whole day from morning till night in that violent kind of
conflict, until such time as powder and bullets failed them. In regard
of which want they thought it convenient not to pursue the Spaniards
any longer, because they had many great vantages of the English, namely
for the extraordinary bigness of their ships, and also for that they were
so nearly conjoined, and kept in so good array, that they could by no
means be fought withal one to one. The English thought therefore,
that they had right well acquitted themselves, in chasing the Spaniards
first from Calais, and then from Dunkirk, and by that means to have
hindered them for joining with the Duke of Parma his forces, and getting
the wind of them, to have driven them from, their own coasts.
The Spaniards that day sustained great loss and damage, having
many of their ships shot through and through, and they discharged
likewise great store of ordnance against the English; who indeed sus-
tained some hindrance, but not comparable to the Spaniards* loss;
for they lost not any one ship or person of account. For very diligent
inquisition being made, the English men all that time wherein the Spanish
Navy sailed upon their seas, are not found to have wanted above one
hundreth of their people; albeit Sir Francis Drake's ship was pierced
with shot above forty times, and his very cabin was twice shot through,
and about the conclusion of the light, the bed of a certain gentleman
lying weary thereupon, was taken quite from under him with the, force
of a bullet, Likewise, as the Karl of Norfhmnhciluul and Sir diaries
Blunt were at dinner upon a time, (he bullet of a <lemi rulverin^ broke
through the midst: of their cabin* touched their feet, and struck down
two of the slanders by, \\ith many weh accidents bef,illini; she English
ships, which it were tedious to rehearse. Whereupon it is mosi apparent
that God miraculously preserved the Kn^lish nation, For the I,, Admiral
wrote unto her Majesty that in all human reason, and according to the
judgment of all men (every circumstance hems 1 ; duly considered) the
English men were not; of any such force, whereby they nuj'jii, uithoul
a miracle, dare once to approach within skylit of the Spanish Fleet: in-
somuch that they freely ascribed all the honour of their victory unto
God, who had confounded the enemy, and had brought bis counsels
to none effect.
The same day the Spanish ships \\ere so lutteted \\iih Knijlish shot,
that that very night and the day following, two or three of them sank
right down: and among the rest a certain ^rcat ship of Biscay, \vhich
Captain Cross assaulted, which perished even in the time of the conflict,
so that very few therein escaped drowning; \vho icportcd that the
governors of the same ship slew one another upon itu- OITUMIW following
one of them which would have yielded the ship was suddenly slain; the
brother of the slain party in revenue of his death slr\v the murderer, and
in the meanwhile the ship sank.
The same night two Portugal galleons of the burden of se\en or eight
hundred tons apiece, to wit the Saint Philip and the Saint Matthew, were
forsaken of the Spanish Fleet, for they \vere so torn with shot that the
water entered into them on all aides, "in the galleon of Saint Philip was
Francis de Toledo, brother unto the Count de Orja:; f bctntt < olonel
over two and thirty bawls: besides other KentU'UU'n;' who Nccin^ their
mast broken with shot, they shaped their course, as \\eil a-, they mild,
for the coast of Flanders: whither when they rould not attain, the
principal men in the ship committing themselves to their .skill', arrived
at the next town, which was Osteml; and the tthip itself bein^ left behind
with the residue of their company, was taken by the VluihitijWM,
In the other galleon, called the H. Matthew, wan embarkrd Don
Diego Pwnentclli, another cump-miwter and colonel of v* luiwl*, lu-wtf
brother unto the Marquis of Tamnams, with many other ^utlnufa ami
captains. Their ship was not very great, but cxi'mliutf atroti^ for of a
great number of bullets which had battered her, there were scarce 20
wherewith she was pierced or hurt: her upper uork wiw of force
sufficient to bear of! a musket shot: thin ship wan nhot through ami pierced
m the fight before Graveling; insomuch that the leakage of the water
could not be stopped: whereupon the Duke of Medina .sent Im great
skift unto the governor thereof, that he might save hinwclf ami the principal
RICHARD HAKLUYT 57
persons that were in his ship: which he, upon a halt courage, refused to
do: wherefore the Duke charged him to sail next unto himself: which
the night following he could not perform, by reason of the great abundance
of water which entered his ship on all sides; for the avoiding whereof,
and to save his ship from sinking, lie caused 50 men continually to labour
at the pump, though it were to small purpose. And seeing himself thus
forsaken and separated from his admiral, he endeavoured what he could
to attain unto the coast of Flanders: where, being espied by 4 or 5 men
of war, which had their station assigned them upon the same coast, he
was admonished to yield himself unto them. Which he refusing to do,
was strongly assaulted by them altogether, and his ship being pierced
with many bullets, was brought into far worse case than before, and
40 of his soldiers were slain. By which extremity he was enforced at
length to yield himself unto Peter Banderducss and other captains, which
brought him and his ship into Zelancl; and that other ship also last before
mentioned: which both of them, immediately after the greater and better
part of their goods were unladen, sank right down.
For the memory of this exploit, the forcsaid Captain Bandcrduess
caused the banner of one of these ships to be set up in the great Church
of Leyden in Holland, which is of so great a length, that being fastened
to the very roof, it reached down to the ground.
About the same time another small ship being by necessity driven
upon the coast of Flanders, about Blankcnberg, was cast away upon the
sands, the people therein being saved. Thus almighty God would have
the Spaniards* huge ships to be presented, not only to the view of the
English, but also of the Zclandcrs; that at the sight of them they might
acknowledge of what small ability they had been to resist such impregnable
forces, had not God endued them with courage, providence, and fortitude,
yea, and fought for them in many places with his own arm.
The 29 of July the Spanish fleet being encountered by the English
(as is aforesaid) and lying close together under their fighting sails, with
a south-west wind sailed past Dunkirk, the English ships still following
the chase. Of whom the day following when the Spaniards had got sea
room, they cut their main sails; whereby they sufficiently declared that
they meant no longer to fight but to fly. For which cause the L. Admiral
of England despatched the L. Henry Scymer with his squadron of small
bhips unto the coast of Flanders, where, with the help of the Dutch ships,
he might stop the Prince of Parma his passage, if perhaps he should attempt
to issue forth with his army. And he himself in the mean space pursued
the Spanish fleet until the second of August, because he thought they
had set sail for Scotland. And albeit he followed them very near, yet
did he not assault them any more, for want of powder and bullets. But
upon the fourth of August, the wind arising, when as the Spaniards
had spread all their sails, betaking themselves wholly to flight, and
5 8 RICHARD I1ARU1YT
leaving Scotland on the left hand, trended fo\\,ird Noruay (uhereby
they suffieicntly declared that their whole intent \v,u; to save tluMnsrlvcs
by flight, attempting for that purpose, with their haUnvd and rra^etl
ships, the most clangorous navigation of the Northern ;;e,i:,) thr Kn!;lir,h
seeing that they were now proceeded unto the laiitudr of 57 drtTees
and being unwilling to participate that danger \\hrrnuto the Spaniards
plunged themselves, and because they wanted thin;';! necessary, ami
especially powder and shot, returned back for Kupjand; leaving behind
them certain pinnaces only, winch they enjoined to i'ollmv the Spaniards
aloof, and to observe their course. And :;o it came to pa /; that the fourth
of August with groat danger and industry, the Ku<di;;h arrived af Ilarwieh:
for they had been loosed up and down \vlth a mhdttv tetnpeut for the
space of two or three days together, which it is likely did j^'eat hurt unto
the Spanish fleet, being (as I said, before) :;o maimed ami battered* The
English now going on whore, provided themselves forthwith of \ietnals,
gunpowder, and other things expedient, that they uiirjif be ready at all
assays to entertain the Spanish lleet, if it clmnerd any more to return.
But being afterward more certainly informed of tin* Spanuuls* course,
they thought it best to leave them unto those hoir.tn'ou-i f md tmeonth
Northern seas, and not; there to hunt after them.
The Spaniards seeing now that they wanted four or Jive thousand
of their people and having divers maimed ami sieK per;on; s and likewise-
having lost 10 or u of their principal ships, they consulted umou^ them-
selves, what they were best to do, beiu^ now escaped out of the hands
of the English, because their victuals failed them in like soil, that they
began also to want cables, cordage, anchors, masts, saiK ami otlirr naval
furniture, and utterly despaired of the Duke of t'.irnu bis a,va:iafH'c
(who verily hoping and undoubtedly expecting the return of fbe Spanish
Fleet, was continually occupied about his tfreat preparation, commanding
abundance of anchors to be made, and other necessary furniture for a
Navy to be provided) they thought it [rood at length, :tn'j;onu us the uiud
should serve them, to fetch a compass about Scotland am! Irrlmd, and
so to return for Spain.
For they well understood, that commandment was ^iveu throughout
all Scotland, that they should not have any sueeour or assistance there,
Neither yrt could they in Norway supply their wants, \YItereiotr,, laving
taken certain Scottish and other fisherhnatH, they brought thr men oil
board their ships, to the end they might be their K uidiM and Pilot*,
Fearing also lest their fresh, water should foil them, they w.i all their
horses and mules overboard; and so touching nowhere upon the roust
of bcptland, but being carried with a fresh ^ule between the Omulea
and 1'aar-Islcs, they proceeded far North, even unto (n decrees of latitude,
being distant from any land at the least 40 leagues Here the Duke of
Medina general of the Fleet commanded all his followers to :diupe their
RICHARD HAKLUYT 59
course for Biscay: and he himself with twenty or five and twenty of
his ships which were best provided of fresh water and other necessaries,
holding on his course over the main Ocean, returned safely home. The
residue of his ships being about forty in number, and committed unto
his Vice-admiral, fell nearer with the coast of Ireland, intending their
course for Cape Clear, because they hoped there to get fresh water, and
to refresh themselves on land. Bat after they were driven with many
contrary winds, at length, upon the second of September, they were
cast by a tempest arising from the southwest upon divers parts of Ireland,
where many of their ships perished. And amongst others, the ship of
Michael de Qquendo, which was one of the great Galliasses: and two
great ships of Venice also, namely, la Ratta and Bclanzara, with other
36 or 38 ships more, which perished in sundry tempests, together with
most of the persons contained in them .
Likewise some of the Spanish ships were the second time carried
with a strong west wind into the Channel of England, whereof some
were taken by the English upon their coast, and others by the men of
Rochelle upon the coast of France.
Moreover, there arrived at Newhavcn, in Normandy, being by tempest
enforced so to do, one of the four great Galliasses, where they found
the ships with the Spanish women which followed the Fleet at their
setting forth. Two ships also were cast away upon the coast of Norway,
one of them being of a great burden; howbeit all the persons in the said
great ship were saved: insomuch that of 134 ships, which set sail out of
Portugal, there returned home 53 only small and great: namely of the
four galliasscs but one, and but one of the four galleys. Of the 91 great
galleons and hulks there were missing 58 and 33 returned: of the pataches
and zabraes 17 were missing, and 18 returned home. In brief, there
were missing 81 ships, in which number were galliasses, galleys, galleons,
and other vessels, both great and small. And amongst the 53 ships
remaining, those also are reckoned which returned home before they
came into the English Channel. Two galleons of those which were returned,
were by misfortune burnt as they rode in the haven; and such like
mishaps did many others undergo. Of 30,000 persons which went in
this expedition, there perished (according to the number and proportion
of the ships) the greater and better part; and many of them which came
home, by reason of the toils and inconveniences which they sustained
in this voyage, died not long after their arrival, The Duke of Medina
immediately upon his return was deposed from his authority, commanded
to his private house, and forbidden to repair unto the Court; where he
could hardly satisfy or yield a reason unto his malicious enemies and
backbiters. Many honourable personages and men of great renown
deceased soon after their return; as namely John Martines de Ricalde,
with divers others. A great part also of the Spanish Nobility and Gentry
6o RICHARD IIAKM1YT
employed in this expedition perished either by lijihu di.'ieases, or drowning
before their arrival; and awonjs (he re:;! Th<mia:; Perenni <f (Jrnmlneil
a Dutchman, being Karl of runtcbroi, nnd son unto Cardinal (iramlwlPs
brother.
Upon the coast of //eland Don Die^o (Jr t>nncntell brother unto the
Marquis dc Tainnares, aiul kinsman unto the Marl uf" Ueneventnm and
Calua, and Colonel over 32 InuuUi with inanv other in the ;,,une ship
was taken and detained as prisoner in '/eUml.
Into England (as we .said before) Don Pedro de Vahle'/, a man of
singular experience, and greatly honoured in his country, \w; led eaptive,
being accompanied with Don Yasquex de Silva, Don Aloir/o dr Sayus,
and others.
Likewise upon the Scottish Western IsUr. of I, mis, and Islay, and
about Cape Kintyrc upon the mainland, there \\ere ea;,t away certain
Spanish ships, out of which were saved divers Captain:; ami <ientlemen,
and almost four hundred soldiers, who lor the tnoM part, after their hip-
wreck, were brought unto Edinburgh in Scotland, and luinj'; miserably
needy and naked, were there clothed at the liberality of the Ktn^ ;m d
the Merchants, and afterward were secretly shipped tor Spain; but
the Scottish licet wherein they passed tourhinr, at Yarmouth on the
coast of Norfolk, were there stayed for a time until the ('ouiinPn pleasure
was known; who in regard of their manifold tn^em*:;, thnm*h they were
enemies, winked at their passage.
Upon the Irish, coast many of their Noblemen and (Jentlemen were
drowned; and divers slain by the barbarous and wild ln:.h, llmvbeit
there was brought prisoner out of Ireland, Dun Alon/o de I, neon,
Colonel of two and thirty bands, commonly called a ter/ii of Naples;
together with Rodorigo de Lasso, and two others of the family of ( "ordnvu,
who were committal unto the custody of Sir Horatio Rdavicini, that
Monsieur de Teligny the son of Monsieur de None (who beintf taken
in fight near Antwerp , was detained prisoner in the t'astle of Turney)
might be ransomed for them by way of exchange, To owclwle, there
was no famous nor worthy family in all Spain, which in this expedition
lost not a son, a brother, or u kinsman,
For the perpetual memory of thin matter, the XelamlerM caused new
coia of silver and brass to be stumped: which on the one Mile contained
the arms of Zeland, with this inscription; <Ju>KY TO tiot* ONLY: anil
on the other side, the pictures of certain great ships, with thru* \vonb:
THE SPANISH FLKKT; ami in the circutufcrcnct; about the* jihijw; IT
CAME, WENT, AND WAS. Anno 1588, That is to aav, the Spanish fleet
came, went, and was vanquished this year; for which, jjiory be. ftiven
to God only.
Likewise they coined another kind of money; upon the, otic wide
whereof was represented a ship fleeing and u Khip winking on the other
RICHARD HAKLUYT 6x
side four men making prayers and giving thanks unto God upon their
knees; with this sentence: Man purposcth, (Joel disposcth. 1588. Also,
for the lasting memory of the same matter, they have stamped in Holland
divers such like coins, according to the custom of the ancient Romans.
While this wonderful and puissant Navy was sailing along the English
coasts, and all men did now plainly see and hear that which before they
would not be persuaded of, all people throughout England prostrated
themselves with humble prayers and supplications unto God: but
especially the outlandish Churches (who had greatest cause to fear, and
against whom by name, the Spaniards had threatened most grievous
torments) enjoined to their people continual fastings and supplications,
that they might turn away God's wrath and fury now imminent upon them
for their sins: knowing right well, that prayer was the only refuge against
all enemies, calamities, and necessities, and that it was the only solace
and relief for mankind, being visited with allliction and misery. Likewise
such solemn days of supplication were observed throughout the united
Provinces.
Also a while after the Spanish Fleet was departed, there was in England,
by the commandment of her Majesty, and in the united Provinces, by
the direction of the States, a solemn festival day publicly appointed,
wherein alt persons were enjoined to resort unto the Church, and there
to rentier thanks and praises unto God: and the Preachers were commanded
to exhort the people thereunto. The forcsaid solemnity was observed
upon the 29 of November; which day was wholly spent in fasting, prayer,
and giving of thanks.
Likewise, the Queen's Majesty herself, imitating the ancient Romans,
rode into London in triumph, in regard of her own and her subjects 1
glorious deliverance. For being attended upon very solemnly by all
the principal estates and officers of her Realm, she was carried through
her said City of London in a triumphant chariot, and in robes of triumph,
from her Palace unto the Cathedral Church of Saint Paul, out of the
which the ensigns and colours of the vanquished Spaniards hung dis-
played. And all the Citizens of London in their Liveries stood on either
side the street, by their several Companies, with their ensigns and
banners: and the streets were hanged on both sides with blue cloth,
which, together with the forcsaid banners, yielded a very stately and
gallant prospect. Her Majesty being entered into the Church, together
with her Clergy and Nobles gave thanks unto God, and caused a public
Sermon to be preached before her at Paul's cross; wherein none other
argument was handled, but that praise, honour, and glory might be
rendered unto God, and that God's name might be extolled by thanks-
giving. And with her own princely voice she most Christianly exhorted
the people to do the same: whereupon the people with a loud acclamation
wished, her a most long and happy life, to the confusion of her foes.
RICHARD HAKLUYT
Thus the magnificent, huflc, and mighty lleet nf the Spaniards (which
themselves termed in all places inviwiblo) such a:; :;ailnl not upon the
Ocean sea many hundred years before, in the year 15X8 \,mi.ihed into
smoke; to the great confusion and disenur.i^nneut of the ;wilwrs
thereof. In regard of which her Majesty';; happy :.mvr;:; all her
neighbours and friends congratulated with her, and many vnv.tv-i were,
penned to the honour of her Majesty by learned men, whereof ;ome
which came to our hands \vc \vi!I here annex,
'tt fmtn ////' Latin nf Knuinnd vvw
WILLIAM; WARN MR
(? 1558 1609)
WILLIAM WAKNHR was horn in
London about 1558, and was
educated at Magdalen Hall, Ox-
ford, but did not graduate, lie
acquired u sound reputation as a
lawyer, and a much wider fame as
a man of letters, He appears to
have been u protege of the iirst and
second Lords Ilunmkm, who both
held the office of Lord Chamberlain,
We know little more about him
than the entry of his death in the
parish register tells us- u Master
William Warner, a man of good
yeares and of honest reputation;
by profession an attornye of the
common pleas, author of"* Albion's
England' " Warner's literary
works consist of Pan A/V tiyritix
(1585), a collection of seven prose
tales; a translation of the M'-
naechml of Plautus (1595), which
Shakespeare may have* aeon in
manuscript before he wrote Tlw
Comedy of Errors; and Albion's
England (ist cd. 1586), The prone
tales are not of much account. The
translation of Hautus is not quite
certainly Warner's, as it is ascribed
to him only on the strength of his
initials; It in merelv uf infereM on
mvcmnt of itu atln^-d eonne\ion
with Shakcx'jpeare, l//>/Vi*,v A>^.
fern/, htn\evet\ is an important
poeuu not only in hulk, but in
certain \ivid ami pnueri'nl qttaiities.
It in an Iiisturir.d or rpK(du' ponn
in fourteen-MytluUlt* et>upl<*t!J, The
iirst edition eoutaitird totir books,
beginninfj with Noah and ending
with William the C 'ontjurror. ( )ther
editions earried on thr ritory to Inter
and even contemporary eventn, so
that the limd (p<ruluuuotts) etlititni
of tOu was in :u\teeu books, and
inehuletl **lhe tnoiit rhief Altent"
tioim and AecitlrntH , . . in the
, * . Raii^ne of , , , Kiujj J
Warner was not, an the e*r
1'Vaneis Meren
him
our
inh Homer *'; hut liiti poem is
vigorous ;uul unpreteiifiniiH, and
its tedium LH reiitned by ntinin^
ptWHU^OH. Jiul^inR by the number
of editions (JU*VTU in twenty -nix
years), it wan e.\trcmrlv popular;
and while thin popularity wan
doubtless due, in part to the
patriotic quulitteH of the poem, it
was nlso due t< merit of a more
WILLIAM WARNER 63
solid kind. It ousted The Mirror Warner Is of interest as an almost
of Magistrates from popular favour, unique example of an English-
and in its turn was to some man of his generation who was
extent ousted by Dray ton's Poly- quite xmtouchccl by Italian influ-
olbion. To the literary historian cnccs.
Albion's England
BOOK IX. CHAP. XLIX
The Spanyards* long time care and coste, invincible surnamed,
Was now a flote, whilst Parma too from Flanders hither aimed.
Like flccte of cightscorc ships and od the ocean, never bore,
So huge, so strong, and so eompleate in every strength and store.
Carikcs, gallons, argosies, and galiasses such
That seemed so many castles and their tops the cloudcs to tuch.
These on the Lizarcles show themselves, and threaten England's fall:
But thcare with fiftie shippcs of ours that flecte was fought withalL
Ilowbeit of a greater sorte our navie did consist,
But partc kept died in the portc that might of health have mistc,
Had Spam's armada of our wants iu Plimnorth's haven wiste.
The rcstc had eye on Parma, that from Flanders' armoor thrcatcs:
Meanwhile lord Charles our admiral and Drake did worthy feats.
Whose fcarclcss fiftie moole-hils bod their trypeld inountaines bacc,
And even at first (so pleas'd it God) pursewed as if in chace:
By this (for over idle seemed to English hearts the shore)
Our gallants did embark cacli-wheare, and made our forces more.
But in such warlike order then their shippes at anker laye
That we, unlcs we them disperse, on booties labour staye:
Nor lacked policie that to that purpose made us wayc.
Ours fyred divers shippes, that downe the current sent so skaerd,
That cables cut and ankers lost the Spanyards badly faered.
Dispersed thus, we spare not shot, and part of them we sinke,
And part we boord, the rest did flye, not fast enough they thinke.
Well guided little axes so force tallest oaks to fall,
So numbrous herds of stately harts fly beagles few and small.
Nine days together chased we them, not actions save in flight.
About eight thowsands perished by famine, sea and fight.
For treasure, shippes and carrages, lost honor, prisoners taync
The Spaniards, hardly scaping hence scapt not rebukes in Spaine.
Well might thus much (as much it did) cheer England, but much more
Concurrancie from one to all to stop that common sore.
Even Catholiques (that erred name doth please the papists) wacr
As forward in this quarrel as the formost arms to bear:
64 WILLIAM \VARNKR
Recusants and suspects of note of nth was the eacr
And had not our (Jod-^uided Isjdit on SUMS pre\ ailed, \e(
The Spaniards, land wherso they eould had with our armies wet.
Our common courage wished no lesse MO lightly feanl we fncs f
Such hope in (Jod, such hate of them, :meh hoait?! lo barter blocs,
Hccrc llam'd the Cyclops* forces, Mar;; his armour was heere,
Himself he shcuds in us and with our cause oiw.elvc:; we eheere.
But (which has searreHde our wounds, if \\oum!e<l, with the hahtu;
Of hot swede presence t so applauded as in sea'-stormeM a eahne)
Her royall self, Elizabeth our soveratf*ne Imfull qneem\
In nuignanimknis majestic amidst her troupes \\.is neene,
Which made us vveepe for joy; nor was her kitulues Irsse to us,
Thinke nothing letting them that mi^ht the t-numuut eattne diseus,
Wheare |)rince and people have in love a sympathie as ihus
Howbeit, force nor poliete, hut (?od\s sole provideui j e,
Did clcare, fore-boasted eoiujuest and brln^hted liiraldome hcnre,
lie in Sanchcrib his nose did put his hooKe aiul brcMirjii
Him back again the way he came, without performing outfit;
He fought tor us, alouely we did shout aud trumpet-* nomul,
When as the wallcs of Jerico tell flat unto the ^mutuL
Yea least (for carst did never heere like strong supplie.*; befall,
Like loyall hearts in everyone, like \\ur-liho inindes in all,
Less spaer of purses, more foresight, antl valiant j^nides trt ad
As shcwdo our bardie little licet that batted rnner nlaekf ,)
Lcastc, I say, might have been sayd tbc eause that we subdewMe,
Even (Jod, to Rlorilic hinwclfe, our ^aynetl euiutr juiirin\Mr,
Without our losse of num, or ma;U> or foe oiu'e tondunf* sliore,
Save such as \vruckl, weare prisnors, or but hmdtui% livM not uuire;
And as in publique praiers we did IUH defeuee implot(%
So being victors, publiquely, we yiehknl thanks therlore,
Her higncs selfe feood cause she had) in view of exerie eye f
On humbled kuees did give him thanks that |?ave her \Vtoric.
Remainetb, what she woune, what Spaiueaiul Kome did lne in fame:
Rcmaineth, popes use potentaten but to retrive their i\,um\
THOMAS WATSON
( ? '557 "i 593)
THOMAS WATSON was horn iu and appears to have been a man of
London about 1557, and was per- independent niean:i and an en-
haps educated at Oxford. lie, thiwiart for poetry ami mutiie. He
studied law, but not very seriously, was one of the best l,atiniw o!' his
THOMAS WATSON
day, and translated into Latin
Petrarch's sonnets, Tasso's A win la,
and the Antigone of Sophocles. lie
was also well, read in Italian and
French literature, lie was a man
of a scholarly, not to say pedantic
east of mind; and when he en-
deavoured to write English verse, he
reclined quite openly on the bosom
of Petrarch, Ronsard, and other
less celebrated writers. His first
volume of verse, KKATOMIIA01A,
or Passionate CcnluHe of Love,,
appeared in 1582. It contained
a hundred poems which the
author insisted on calling sonnets,
though each contains eighteen lines
(three repetitions of the form found
in the last six lines of a Shake-
spearean sonnet). Watson had the
soul of a scholiast, and wrote a
curious prose commentary on each
of his frigid poems, explaining
their origin and quoting parallel
passages, lie seems to have been
the first or among the first to double
the role of author and commen-
tator, as Jonson did a generation
later, to the detriment of his work.
His second volume, The Tears of
Fanclc, or Love Disdained, appeared
posthumously in 1593. It is more
correct than the earlier volume, as
its sonnets contain fourteen lines,
but it is equally frigid. " The truest
poetry is the most feigning "; and
there is no feigning at all in Wat-
son's work. His love and despair
are all quite obviously make-believe.
He is of importance as a competent
though not accomplished metrician,
as an early sonneteer, and as a popu-
larise!" of artificial love poetry, His
influence on greater sonneteers,
who infused real passion into their
poetry, was great. Sidney and
Shakespeare studied his work. The
egregious Francis Meres groups
Watson with Shakespeare, Mar-
lowe, and others as " best for
tragedie ", but his dramatic writ-
ings, if they ever existed, are lost.
Passionate Centime of Love
ii
In this passion the Author describeth in how pitious a case the hart
of a loner is, being (as he fayneth heere) scperatcd from his owne body,
and rcmoucd into a darksome and solitarie wildernes of woes. The eon-
ueyance of his inuention is plaine and pleasant enough of it sclfc, and
therefore necdeth the lesse annotation before it.
My harte is sett him downe twixt hope and feares
Vpon the stonie banke of high desire,
To view his own made flud of blubbering teares
Whose waues are bitter salt, and hote as lire:
There blowcs no blast of wind but ghostly grones
Nor waues make other noyse then pitious moanes.
As life were spent he waiteth Charons boate,
And thinkes he dwells on side of Stigian lake:
But blackc clespaire some times with open throatc,
Or spightfull lelousie doth cause him quake,
With howlinge shrikes on him they call and crie
That he as yet shall nether Hue nor die:
VOL. u.
Audwantelh voyce to make his iur.t complaint.
^ *
No llowr hut lHacyntli in nil the plaa\
No sunnc conies there, nor any hean'nly r.ainle,
But: onely slice, which in him selie remaines,
And ioyes her case though he ahound in p, lines,
VII
This passion of loue is liuely expressed by thr Anthonr, in thai ho lauishlm
praiseth the person and hcauttfull ornainrnuv; of his lour. one after an
other as they He in order, lie partly imitatoth horein , Irmw SV/wj/,v, who
scttoth downc the like in ilruerihintf 7.fT<7/</ thr lour of /','w\Wf/v; ami
partly he followeih slrhusto t'tint* y, where he uV-tenhcth Jfchut: and partly
borrowcth from some others where they <Ie;;eriho the tauunj;; //c/r;/
Greece: you may therefore, if you please aptlie eall thi'i raumot a-, a SrlmUe
of good iutl^onienl; hath already ('hnstenoil it r^i.'v/; ;:; / ( ,
:/
1 lurkc you that list to heare what salute 1 Menu,*;
Her yellowc Incites exeeede the heafen fmuKle;
Her sparkelin^ eies in heatt'n a plare de-'.erue;
Her forehead hi^h and i'aire of eoniety rnonhle;
Her wordes are nuusieke all of Miner :;oumto;
Her \vii so sharpe as like ean seatso hr foutul:
Haehcyehrowe han^e:s like Ins in the :.kte;j;
Her AV/#/<\v nose is straight of stately frame;
On either ehecke a, Rust* and Utlfr lies;
Her breath is sweet tr iHn'fume, or liollio flame;
Her lips more red than any ^ f wv///Miune;
Her nceke more white, then ;tf*ed Swum that ntone;
Her breat Lnmsparent is, like (liristall roeke;
Her lingers long t lit for ;f/m//m\v l.me;
Her slipper such us Momus tlare not mtuio;
Her vcrlucs all so great as make me mute:
What other purtes t;he hath I write not tuy,
Whose face alone is cause of my deeaye,
XI
In this sonnet is couertly sd forth, how pli-asaimt a pavuun the Author
one day cnioyed, when by chance he ouerimrde hirt minim, whtKr nlie xvas
singing pnuately by her aelfe; And one after into Itowe ujmivvtuU a dumpe
or soundcn cxtaaio be fell, when vpon the iint Hfoht of hint tilu* uhruntlu*
nmshed her song and melodte.
Gouklcn bird and Phcntx of our ajt* f
Whose sweete records and more then earthly voier
By wondrous force did then my gride uuige
When nothing els could make mv heart reiom\
* * *
THOMAS WATSON 67
Thy teuncs (no doubt) had made a later end,
If thou hadst knowen how much they stood my Trend .
When silence dround the latter warbling noate,
A sudden gricfe celypst my former ioyc,
My life it selfe in calling Carom boate
Did sigh, and say, that pleasure brought anoy;
And blam'd mine eare for listning to the sound
Of such a songc, as had increast my wound.
My heauic heart rcmcmbring what was past
Did sorrowe more than any toungc can tell;
As did the damned soules that stoodc agast,
When Orpheus with his wife retum'd from hell:
Yet who would think, that Musicke which is swete,
In curing paincs could cause clelitcs to fleete?
XLVII
This Passion conteineth a relation through out from line to line; as,
from eucry line of the first stafFe as it standcth in order, vnto eucry line
of the second staffe; and from the second stafle vnto the third. The oftener
it is read of him that is no great clarke, the more pleasure he shall haue
in it. And this posic a scholler set down ouer this Sonnet, when he, had
well considered of it: Tarn casu, quam arte et industria. The two first lines
are an imitation of Scrap/line , Sonnctto 103.
Col tempo el Villanello al giogo mena
El Tor si fiero, e si crudo animalc,
Col tempo cl Falcon s'vsa a mcnar Talc
E ritornare a te chiamando It pena.
Jn time the Bull is brought to weare the yoake;
In time all haggred Haukcs will stoope the Lures;
In time small wedge will cleaue the sturdiest Oake;
In time the Marble weares with weakest shewres:
More fierce is my sweete hue more hard withall,
Then Beast, or Birde, then Tree, or Stony wall.
No yoake preuailcs, shee will not yeeld to might;
No Lure will cause her stoope, she bearcs full gorge;
No wedge of woes make printe, she reakes no right;
No shewre of tears can moue, she thinkes I forge:
Helpe therefore Heau'nly Boy, come perce her brcst
With that same shaft, which robbes me of my rest.
So let her feele thy force, that she relent;
So keepe her lowe, that she vouchsafe a pray;
So frame her will to right, that pride be spent;
So forge, that I may speede without delay;
Which if thou do, Fie sweare, and singe with ioy,
That Lone no longer is a blinded Boy.
Here the Authour after some dolomns diseoun.r nt in-; \nhappiiu\s,
and reheursall of some particular !wrtc:i whieh lu* susteineth in the puriuiu*
/ i _ i ,. i.,.,,,.. t "". ..,,,** / . 1 1 , <* It \t\t\t 1i it-ifn ln'i i .tit r \* ill Iti'i H(M/*rfi" M-M<!
and 1 "CllUill MUUVH.inVIHV JF**I ** .,,.,,. T , ..,., -,- .-,,,,,,,,,. , . % , , v j'^Jt^um,-
of his loue: first questioneth with hr. /^f/v of his de-ierte; and thrn, as
hauin^c made a Hullieiente proofe of his ^twoenuA, pers\\adeth tier to
pitic him, whom she herselfe hatlj hurte. Moreouer it i- to lx; noted, drat
the first letters of all the verses in this Passion hein^ inynrd (<>?>rduT a:?
they stand, do conteine this posie a.s'.reeable to his nu-aninn;, , Irnm' me ^".'*
ct wit.
A A World of woes doth raume within my hrest,
m My pcnsiue thou^htes arc con'rcd all with care,
o Of all that sintf the *SV<v;//;/c doth please me be:;!,
r Restraint of ioyes exiles my uoonteil lare,
Mad wooded Lone vsurpiiu? Keas<ns place
l^xtremitie doth oner rnle the ease.
Paine drieth \p my vainer, and \ttall blond,
u Vnlesse the *SV//// 1 scnu* iene hclpe in time:
n None els, but she alone, can do me j,nod>
g (iranni then ye (Joils, that lirst she ma\ not clime
i Jmmortall hcan*iis, to Hue with Sttintt^ ahtue
t Then she \ouehsafc to \echl me lone for lone
#'
K Examine well the time of my distresse
t Thou dainty l)ttnu\ of whom 1 pint* a\\a\
V Vnguyltie llioti^h, as ueedes thou must coidcsse,
r Remcmbrin^ but (he eatise of my decay;
i In vowing lb\" ^weete face aru.se my iwefe,
1 i A/ f ' S )
t Therefore in lyine vouehsafe me some relief e.
M
c
ALEXANDER MON'LX K)M !; R 1 1)
ALEXANDER MON'IXSOMKIUK wan u
son of Hugh Mont^omeric of
Hcssilhcad Castle, Ayrshire, awl
was born about 1556* Wo do not
know where he* was educated,
though his poems attest that lie
was a man of considerable cull tire.
He entered the king's aerviee, was
styled " captain ", by courtesy or
otherwise, and became scmi-ofli-
cially Poet Laureate to the court.
He fell into disgrace, it is not known
why or when, and nvetved a pen
sion \vhieh wati irregular! v paid,
lie heeame a man \\ith a ^rievamT,
which he aired, in many of his
poenus, thereby 1 iiuj'Kiirtug their
interest, l*o add to hit* discontent-
ment 1 he luH*ame involved in a
lengthy lawsuit roneernhif; hin pfn-
sion, atul although la* wan in die
eiul sueecssful in his suit, Inn eon*
vietiun that he \\;u an injtired num
became Htron^er and stronger. So
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE
69
little do we know of his later years
that his death has been dated as
early as 1591 and as late as 1614.
By far the most famous of Mont-
gomeric's poems is The Cherrie and
the Slae (printed 1597), an allegori-
cal poem whose key is lost, or per-
haps it would be more correct to
say that the reader is offered by the
critics an embarrassing multiplicity
of keys for it. It is a poem of about
1600 lines written in peculiar
fourtcen-linc stanzas a metrical
form of some intricacy which
Montgomerie invented or popu-
larized. Many of its stanzas are
fresh and vigorous, and show a
genuine love of nature. It is free
from the aureate style. The Ply ting
betwixt Montgomery and Polwart
(published 1621) is an imitation of
D unbar *s notorious poem, which
it equals in scurrility but not in the
exuberance of its verbosity. The
Mind's Melodic j a version of some
of the Psalms and other spiritual
songs, is more creditable to Mont-
gomerie's piety than to his poetical
gifts. His sonnets and miscellaneous
poems are for the most part good
when they are amatory or occa-
sional, poor when they are devo-
tional, and contemptible when they
sing the praises of King James.
Montgomerie is, for several reasons,
an interesting figure in literary
history. Although he was only some
eight years Shakespeare's senior,
he belongs in everything but date
to the fifteenth century. lie is what
physiologists term a " throw-back "
to the age of Dunbar, with his
allegories, fly tings, and curiously
complicated metres. lie also pos-
sesses the melancholy interest which
attaches to the last survivor of any
school of literature. He is the last
of the il makaris ", Aytoun, the
Earl of Stirling, and other poets of
Scottish birtli followed English
models and adopted an entirely
English vocabulary.
[Dr. James Cranstoun edited
Montgomerie's Poems for the
S.T.S. in three volumes in 1887;
twenty years later a useful supple-
mentary volume, edited by Mr.
George Stevenson, gave a better
text of The Cherrie and the Side
from Laing MS. No. 447.]
Off the Cherrie and the Slae
About ane bank, quhair birdis on bewis
Ten. thousand tymes thair nottis rcnewis
Ilk hour into the day,
Quhair merle and maveis mieht be sene,
With progne and with phclomcnc,
Quhilk causit me to stay.
I lay and lenit me to anc buss,
To heir the birdis heir;
Thair mirth was so melodius,
Throw nature of the yeir:
Sum singing, sum springing,
So hcich into the skyc;
So nitnlie and trimlie
Thir birdis flew me by.
ALKXANDKR MONT* SOMKUIK
I saw the hnrehnn atul the hair,
Quhilk foci amange the ilouris Mr,
war happin to aiul I'm:
1 saw the nvnynj 1 ; and thr kat,
Quhais downis \\ith the dew was \\at
With inony bcistis nut,
The haul, the hynd, the <la, the* nu\
the fumarl, and the fox,
\vius skippin all frome bray t<> hray,
Aiming the waiter hrokis;
Sum fcidding, sum dreitldini%
In cais ofsudclnno snairis;
With skipping, atul trippin,
thay hanttit ay in pairis.
The air was so atk'mperaf ,
But ony mist; Immaeulatt,
Raitli purdVil, ;uul eloir;
The icihlis ovver all was flureisehit*
As nalour haid thanie uurisehitt,
Hayth delicat; and ileii"
And eticrie blume on hranrhe and lunvr
So prettillic thay npred,
hingan^ tlwir hcidis out nwtn 1 the hcueh,
In inayis eullour clod;
Sum knapping Sum drappin^
01" bahnie litjuor sxvt'it,
Destellin^ and smelling
Throw phehus lielsnm licit,
The Coukou and the eussatf ervid,
'
the turtill, on the vther syile,
Na picture haid in play:
Sua schill in sorow wu hir anj,%
That with hir voee tlie roehis nui|^
for echo ansucrit ay,
Lanicntln^ still NurciHsus* eats,
That fitcnut at the well;
Quha throw the schaclow of his fact*
for luif did slay him sell:
Sair wciping and ereiping,
about that well he baitl;
Quhylis lying, quhylis eryijig
Bot it na ansuer maid.
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY
The dew as dyamontis did hiug
Vpoun the tender twiskis ying,
Owcrtwinkling all the treis:
And ay quhair flouris did ilureis fair,
Thair suddanlic I saw repair
Ane suarme of sounding beis.
Sum sucitlie lies the hony socht,
Quhill thay war claggit soir;
Sum willinglie the wakx lies wrocht
To keip it vp in. store;
So hcipping, for keiping,
Into thair hyvis thay hyd it:
prcceislie and viselie,
for winter thay provydit.
To pen the pleasur of that park,
how eucrie blaysum, brench, and bark,
Aganis the sonc did schync,
I leave to poyctis to compyle,
In staitlie vcrs and ornate style:
It passit my ingyne,
Bot as I movit me allonc,
I saw ane rcver Rin
Out ouer ane craig and Roch of stone,
Syne liehtit in ane lin:
With tumbling and Rumbling,
Among the roclus round,
De vailing and falling
Into the pitt profound.
To heir the stertlie strcameis eleir,
Me thocht it mwsick to the eir,
Quhair daskenc did abound,
With trubill sueit, & tennour lust;
And ay the echo reparcust
hir diapassoun sound,
Set with the ci soil fa uthe clewc,
Thairby to know the note,
Sounding ane michtic senabrewe
Out of the elphis thrott:
Discreittlie, mair sueitlie,
Nor craftle ampliioim;
Or mwssis that vsis
That foimtoun eloquon.
Quha wuld huwc lyrit to heir that tune,
The birdw eorrohrul ay abom\
Throw sehuiding of the, larkis?
sum Hew so heiehe into the sky is,
Quhill eupid walknil \vith thr eryis
Of naturall ehappell elerkts;
Quha leaving all the heaviuis ahom\
allcichlit on the yeird,
Lo, heir that littill |;od of luif*
Beloir nu: thuir appetrd;
So myltllykc and chiUIlykt*,
With bow thivis quarteris skatit;
So moylte so coylie,
he luikit Ivk am* want,
A
Auc cleirlic crisp hanst owtn 1 his eis,
his quaver lie his nakkit ihcis
hang hi aue, siluer raiss:
Of gold hetuix hi schoulderi:; ^ri'\v
Tua prcttic \vin^is <|uhair\vtth lu
On Ins left anne aiu^ hnuv.
That; j^otl of all his jjjdr he seho\
And layit; it on the ground:
1 ran ul hinsie for to luik
(Juhair fairlew aiielit be ftiud:
1 malsit, 1 |^aisit\
To sc that #cir HO ^uy:
Pcrsaving iny having,
he cornptit me his pray.
cc Quluit wald thou gif me iVerul/ 1 tptod lu%
<c To hauc thir prettie \v insist to (Ho,
To sport the for ane tpihyle?
Or quhut, gif 1 Htild lend the heir
my bow and all my selmting geir,
Sum boclic to bc^yle?**
u That jp;cir," (juod I, ** cm noeht be but-lit,
Yitwald I haue it fane/'
" Qnluit gUV* quod he, u it cost the
Bot ruuder it agane?"
His \vingis than he bringw than,
And band tluune on my bak:
" Go, flic now," quod lie now,
And so my Icif I tuk.
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY 73
I sprang vpoun cwpidois wingis,
the bow and quaver bayth rcsingis,
To lene me for ane day.
As Icarus with borrowit llyeht,
I muntit heichar nor 1 mycht,
Ourc perrcllus ane play.
Than furth I drew that dcidlic dairt,
that sumtyme hurt his mother;
quhairwith i hurt my wantcmn hairt,
In hoip to hurt ane vthcr.
I hurt me and bruit me,
the ofter I it hantcil;
Sum se now, In me now,
the buttcrfle and candill.
As scho delyttyth in the low.
So was 1 browdin of my bow,
As Ignorant as seho:
And as scho flcis quhill seho be fyrit,
So, with the dairt that I dcsyrit,
My handis hes hurt me to.
As fulyche factoun, by suit,
His fathcris cairt obtenit,
I langit in cupiddis bow to schuit,
bot wist nocht quhat it mcnit.
Mair wilfull nor skylfull,
to flie I was so fund,
desyring, Inspyring,
And sa was sene appond.
To lait I leirnit, quha hcwis he,
the spaill sail fall into his ey:
To lait 1 went to scuillis:
To lait I hard the suallow preich,
To lait experience dois teich
The scuilmaister of fuillis:
To lait I find the nest I scik,
quhan as the birclis ar flownc:
To lait the stable duir I stcik,
quhan as the steid is stowin .
To lait ay thair stait ay
All fulych folk espy:
behind so, thai find s'o,
rcmeid, and so do I. (Lines ^
74
RICHARD IIOOKKR
RICHARD IIOOKKR
(? 1553 I(K)O)
RICHARD HQOICKR was born at
Heavitrce, near Exeter, in or about
1553. lie was educated at K \Tter
Grammar School, and at Corpus
Christ! College, Oxford, where he
graduated 1JA, in 1574 and MA
in 1577, obtaining a fellowship m
the latter year. He was a keen
student, and his acquaintance with
Greek and Hebrew was very^vide,
and for a time he deputised for the
professor of Hebrew, About 1581
he took holy orders, and preached
at St. Paul's* Cross in London. His
London landlady, Mrs. Church-
man, suggested to him Uiat Jie
needed someone to look after him,
and, being empowered to choose
him a wife, not unnaturally selected
her own daughter Joan, whom ho
at once married. u (> hell! to
choose love by smother's eyes,"
said Hermm; awl Hooker soon
found the truth of the saying. 1 1 is
wife appears to have been some-
thing of a shrew, though it; is pos-
sible that her bad qualities have
been exaggerated by Walton and
others because her sympathies were
with the Puritans. She certainly
appears to have mishandled 1 looker's
papers after his death; but when
she summoned her husband from
gossiping with bis friends to rock
the cradle, she was surely not guilty
of any unusual action or heinous
offence. Hooker* who of course
vacated his fellowship on his mar-
riage, at first held the living of
Drayton Beauchatnp, in Bucking-
hamshire, but his friends, in order
to free him from a life of sheep-
tending and cradle-rocking, pro-
cured his appointment as Master
of the Temple in s^>- Hooker
preached at the Temple on Sunday
mornings; the afternoon lecturer
\vasono \ValterTra\ers, an eminent
Puritan, uho hail been an unsuc-
cessful candidate for the mastership.
A sharp though courteous contro-
versy arose between Hooker and
Travers* ami inspired the former
to write his nreat \vuik on ec-
clesiastical polity. Any contro-
versy, however, no nutter how
politely conducted, was repugnant
to Hooker's identic and sensitive
nature, and in 150,1 he, requested
the Archbishop of Canterbury to
jtfive him a country heuelice " where
I tuny study, and pi ay for ( Jod's
hhssjiu*; on" my endeavours, and
keep myself in 'peace and pnvaey,
and behold (*od*s blessings- spring
out of my mother eatih, and eat
my own bread utthont opposi-
tions". He \vas accordingly pre-
sented to the rectory of Hoseombe,
Wiltshire, antl waV instituted to a
minor prehaul of Salisbury. ( In
5<)5 he received the hcttcr living
of Hishopshwiwe, near Canterbury,
where he laboured continually at
his tfreat book until his death on
2nd November, toco.
Of tlw ItdiM <{f Ihrhwtwtlt'titl
Politic has a curious ami rather
uncertain literary history,. The
first four hooks were ptiblinhcd In
or a little before 1594. The fifth
appeared in *$ ( )7" 'The kth and
eighth books appeared fit'Ht in t(>4H,
while the seventh did not appear
until 1662* There is Mome dwihl
about the authenticity of the post-
RICHARD HOOKER
75
humously published books; but
the consensus of opinion is that
the seventh and eighth books
arc substantially Hooker's, being
worked up from his rough notes;
but that the so-called sixth book,
though also substantially Hooker's,
is part of another work, and has
no right to a place in the Ecclesias-
Ucall Politic, The matter is not
quite clear, and the nature of the
book encouraged pious frauds
among religious and political en-
thusiasts. Hooker's book is a master-
piece both in thought and style.
In the first two books he expounds
philosophical principles and in the
later books he applies them to the
question in hand, so that in ways
the first two books are the most
generally interesting. But Hooker
had great gifts; what might seem
to be merely of temporary interest
becomes of permanent interest in
his hands; what is mortal has put
on immortality. In his broad,
tolerant, and sympathetic spirit, in
his calmness, his dignity, and his
freedom from rancour, Hooker
stands almost alone among theo-
logical controversialists. No one,
no matter what his religious or
political views may be, can rise
from a perusal of Hooker without
a greatly increased respect for the
Church of England, not only of
1600, but of to-day. His book is
typical of England and English
ways of thought, equally far
removed from Rome and from
Geneva, His style is as judicious
as his subject-matter, and keeps
carefully to the via media between
stiffness and familiarity, between
pedantry and colloquialism, be-
tween preciosity and vulgarity.
Hooker himself was a holy and
humble man of heart; a profound
scholar and a wise man too. His
book, like many books, has had a
somewhat curious fate. It was
written to support a mildly Big-
Endian policy, but is now used by
Little-Endians when attacking the
Big-Endian extremists.
[Ixaak Walton, Life of Hooker,
J. Keble, Of tfw Laws of Ecclesias-
tical Polity (revised by R. W.
Church and F. Paget); W.
Hook, Ecclesiastical Biography.]
Of the Lawes of Ecclesiastical! Politic
CHAP. I
He that goeth about to persuade a multitude, that they are not so
well governed as they ought to be, shall never want attentive and favourable
hearers; because they know the manifold defects whcrcunto every kind
of regiment is subject, but the secret lets and difficulties, which in public
proceedings are innumerable and inevitable, they have not ordinarily
the judgment to consider. And because such as openly reprove supposed
disorders of state are taken for principal friends to the common benefit
of all, and for men that carry singular freedom of mind; under this fair
and plausible colour whatsoever they utter passeth for good and current,
That which wanteth in the weight of their speech, is supplied by the
aptness of men's minds to accept and believe it. Whereas on the other
?6 RICHARD IIOOKKR
side, if we maintain things that arc established > \\c have not only to
strive with a number of heavy prejudices deeply rooted in tin* hearts of
men, who think that herein we serve the time, and speak in favour of
the present state, because thereby \ve either hold or seek preferment;
but also to hear such exceptions as minds so averted beforehand usually
take against that which they are loath should be poured into them.
Albeit therefore much that we are to speak in this present cause may
seem to a number perhaps tedious, perhaps obscure, dark, and intricate;
(for many talk of the (ruth, which never sounded the depth from whence
itspringeth; and therefore when they arc led thereunto they aresoon weary,
as men drawn from those healen paths wherewith they have been inured*);
yet this may not so far prevail as to cut off that \\hieli the matter itself
requircth, howsoever the nice humour of some be* therewith pleased
or no. They unto whom we shall seem tedious arc in no wist* injured
/ *.*
by us, because it is in their own hands to spare that labour which they
are not willing to endure. And if any complain of obscurity, they must
consider, that in these matters It eometh no otherwise to pass than in
sundry the works both of art: and also of nature, where that which hath
greatest force in the very things we sec is notwithstanding itself often-
times not seen, The stateliness of houses, the goodtiness of trees, when
we behold them delightcth the eye; but that foundation \\lurh beareth
up the 0111% that root: which nunistcrcth unto the other nourishment am!
life, is in the bosom of the earth concealed; and if there be at any time
occasion to search into it, such labour is then more necessary than pleasant,
both to them winch undertake it and for the lookers-on. In like manner,
the use and benefit of good laws all that live under them may enjoy with
delight and comfort, albeit the grounds ami tirst original eanses from
whence they have sprung be unknown, as to the greatest part of men
they are, But when they who withdraw their obedience pretend that
the laws which they should obey arc corrupt and vicious; for better
examination of their quality, it bchoveth the very foundation and root,
the highest well-spring and fountain of them to he discovered. Which
because we are not oftentimes accustomed to do, when we do it the pains
we take are more needful a great; deal than acceptable, and the mutters
which we handle seem by reason of nevwm (till the mind j;ro\v better
acquainted with them) dark, intricate, and unfamiliar, For as much
help whereof as may be in thin case, 1 have endeavoured throughout
the body of this whole discourse, that every former pail might 'tfive
strength unto all that follow, and every later' bring ome li^ht unto all
before. So that if the judgments of "men do Inn hold themselves in
suspense as touching these first more general meditations, till in order
they have perused the rest that ensue; what may seem dark at the first
will afterwards be found more plain, even as the later particular decisions
will appear I doubt not more strong, when the other have been read before,
RICHARD HOOKER 77
The Laws of the Church, whereby for so many ages together we
have been guided in the exercise of Christian religion and the service
of the true God, our rites, customs, and orders of ecclesiastical govern-
ment, are called in question: we are accused as men that will not have
Christ Jesus to rule over them, but have wilfully cast his statutes behind
their backs, hating to be reformed and made subject unto the sceptre
of his discipline. Behold therefore we oiler the laws whereby we live
unto the general trial and judgment of the whole world; heartily be-
seeching Almighty God, whom we desire to serve according to his own
will, that both we and others (all kind of partial a (lection being clean laid
aside) may have eyes to see and hearts to embrace the things that in his
sight are most acceptable.
And because the point about which we strive is the quality of out-
laws, our first entrance hereinto cannot better be made, than with con-
sideration of the nature of law in general, and of that law which giveth
life unto all the rest, which are commendable, just, and good; namely
the law whereby the Eternal himself doth work. Proceeding from hence
to the law, first of Nature, then of Scripture, we shall have the easier
access unto those things which come after to be debated, concerning
the particular cause and question which we have in hand,
CHAP, II
All things that are, have some operation not violent or casual. Neither
doth any thing ever begin to exercise the same, without some fore-
conceived end for which it worketh. And the end which it workcth for
is not obtained, unless the work be also lit to obtain it by. For unto
every end every operation will not serve. That which doth assign unto
each thing the kind, that which doth moderate the force and power,
that which doth appoint the form and measure, of working, the same
we term a Law. So that no certain eacl could ever be attained, unless
the actions whereby it is attained were regular; that is to say, made
suitable, fit and correspondent unto their end, by some canon, rule or
law. Which thing doth first take place in the works even of God himself.
All things therefore do work after a sort according to law: all other
things according to a law, whereof some superior, unto whom they arc
subject, is author; only the works and operations of God have Him
both for their worker, and for the law whereby they are wrought. The
being of God is a kind of law to his working: for that perfection which
God is, giveth perfection to that he doth. Those natural, necessary,
and internal operations of God, the Generation of the Son, the Proceeding
of the Spirit, are without the compass of my present intent: which is
to touch only such operations as have their beginning and being by a
voluntary purpose, wherewith God hath eternally decreed when and
7 8 RK'U'ARD 11OOKKR
how they should he. Which etenul decree ij that uc term an eternal
law.
.Dangerous it; were tor the feeble hrain nf uuu to \\,ul r f ar j u { |j u ,
doings of the Most High; \vhom although f<> know br liu\ aud joy to
make mention of his name; yet our soundest kum\led{e i,-j to know "that
we know him not as indeed he is, neither nut know him: and our .safest
eloquence concerning him is our silence, wltni \ve confess \\ithnut con-
fession that his glory is inexplicable^ ht:i ^re.tfuens above our capacity
and reach, lie is above, and ue upon earth; therefore it hehovcth our
words to be wary and few,
Our God is one, or rather \ery Oneness, and men* unity, having
nothing but itself in itself, and not consisting (a:; all things do besides
God) of many things, In which essential I ! nity of < md a Trinity personal
nevertheless subsisteth, after a manner far e\verdi'i** the possibility
of man's conceit 1 . The works which outwardly are nt <;<nl, they are of
such sort of Him being one, thul each Person hath in them somewhat
peculiar and proper. For being Three, and they all subsisting ' m i| lc
essence of one Deity; from the Fat her, b\ the- Son. iluoui*h tho Spirit,
all things are. That which the Sim doth hear of the Father, and which
the Spirit doth receive of the Father and the Sou, the same \vr have at
the hands of this Spirit as heiuj* ihe last, and thereloic the nearest unto
us in order, although in power the same with the second ami the HrsL
The wise atul learned among the very hc.uhmn themselves have all
acknowledged some First Cause, whereupon orij>juail> the heing of all
things dependeth. Neither have they otherwise spoken of that eanse
than as an Agent, which knowing what ami why it worteth, nlnu-rvdh
in working a most exact order or law, Thus much w {minified by
that which Homer meutioucth, AM* <V /nA-oWo //m-A,;. Tims much
acknowledged by Mcrcuriim TrisiwgistuM, T.V / ( .; T K.Iir/i..r ;/,> r
6 fy/uoiyjylX' oi'i xt/nro' /A,Xrt Xo)'^, Thun much coideut by Anavagonw
and Plato, terming the Maker of the world an intrfltrtunt \\o\ier. Finally
the Stoics, although imagining the linn eauwc of all thinp* to be lire
held nevertheless, that the name lire having art, did ,V, v i fl^.n* ; ff j
7vio- K<5rr/*oi. They all confeHH therefore in the working of that lirnt
cause, that Counsel IB used, Reason followed, a Way ob^erxtnl; that in
to say, constant order and Law is kept; whereof itself smut ueedn be
author unto itself, Otherwise it nhouhl have some uorthier and higher
to direct it, and so could not itself be the first. Beiui* the liwi, it Van
have no other than itself to he the author of that law vUtich it uillmdy
worketh by, h 7
God therefore is a law both lo himneli; and to all other tiling benidei,
lo^himself ho is a law in all those things, whereof our Saviour sneaketh,
saying My hither worketh as vet, *> I ". (Jml vvorkcth nothing
without cause. Alt those things which arc done by him huve Home eml
RICHARD HOOKER 79
for which they arc done; and the end for which they are done is a
reason of his will to do them. Ills will had not inclined to create woman,
but that he saw it conld not be well if she were not created, Nou cat
homini) " It is not good man should be alone; therefore let us make a
helper for him," That: and nothing else is done by God, which, to leave
undone were not so good.
If therefore it be demanded, why God having power and ability
infinite, the effects notwithstanding of that power are all so limited as
we see they are: the reason hereof is the end which he hath proposed,
and the law whereby his wisdom hath stinted the effects of his power
in such sort, that it doth not work infinitely but correspond cully unto that
end for which it worketh, even " all things x/ ) ^ frT( ^ > -> i 11 niost decent and
comely sort ", all things in Measure, Number, and Weight.
The general end of Cod's external working is the exercise of his
most glorious and most abundant virtue. Which abundance doth show
itself in variety, and for that cause this variety is oftentimes in Scripture
exprest by the name of riches. " The Lord hath made all things for his
own sake." Not that any thing is made to be beneficial unto him, but
all things for him to show beneficence and grace in them.
The particular drift of every act proceeding externally from God
we are not able to discern, and therefore cannot always give the proper
and certain reason of his works. Howbcit undoubtedly a proper and
certain reason there is of every finite work of God, inasmuch as there
is a law imposed upon it; which if there were not, it should be infinite,
even as the worker himself is.
They err therefore who think that of the will of God to do this or
that there is no reason besides his will Many times no reason known
to us; but that there is no reason thereof I judge it most unreasonable
to imagine, inasmuch as he worketh all things Kara rt/v /Jo-uA/iJv TO{?
0eX*;/Aaros s aiVoP, not only according to his own will, but " the Counsel
of his own will ". And whatsoever is done with counsel or wise resolution
hath of necessity some reason why it should be done, albeit that reason
be to us in some things so secret, that it forceth the wit of man to stand,
as the blessed Apostle himself cloth, amazed thereat: " O the depth
of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how un-
searchable are his judgments," etc. That law eternal which Gotl himself
hath made to himself, and thereby worketh all things whereof he is the
cause and author; that law in the admirable frame whereof shineth with
most perfect beauty the countenance of that wisdom which hath testified
concerning herself, " The Lord possessed me in the beginning of his
way, even before his works of old I was set up "; that law, which hath
been the pattern to make, and is the card to guide the world by; that
law which hath been of God and with God everlastingly; that law, the
author and observer whereof is one only God to be blessed for ever:
8o
RICHARD IIOOKKR
how should cither men or angels he able perfectly to behold? The | >00 j.
of this law we are neither able nor worthy to open and look into. That
little thereof which we darkly apprehend we admire, the rest with
religious ignorance we humbly and meekly adore.
Seeing therefore that according to this law He worketh, " of whom
through whom, and for whom, are all things "; although there seem
unto us confusion and disorder in, the affairs of this present world;
" Tamen quoniam bonus mundum reel or temporal, recto iicri cuncta
ne dubitcs ": u Let no man doubt but that every tiling is well done
because the world is ruled by so jj;ood a, jjuide ", as transtTcs,scth not
His own law: than which nothing can be more absolute, perfect, and just,
The law whereby He worketb is eternal, ami therefore can have
no show or colour of mutability: for which cause, a part of thai J IUV
being opened in the promises which God hath made (because his
promises are nothing else but declarations what (foil will do for the
good of men) touching those promises the Apostle bath witnessed, that
Gotl may as possibly u deny himself " and not be Ciod, as fail to perform
them. And concerning the counsel of (Jod, he tenncth it likewise a
thing "unchangeable"; the counsel of God, ami that law of ( Joel
whereof now we speak, being one,
Nor is the freedom of the will of < iott any whit abated, let, or hindered
by means of this; because the imposition of this law upon himself is
his own free and voluntary act.
This law therefore we may name eternal, being ** that order which
God before all ages hath set down with himself, 'lor himself to do ;
things by ".
HENRY CONSTABLE
( 1562 1613 )
HENRY CONSTABLE was the son of
Sir Robert Constable of Newark,
and was born in 1562, He was
educated at St. John's College,
Cambridge, where he graduated
B.A. in 1580. He became an ardent
Roman Catholic while still a young
man, and appears to have been
engaged in secret service, a dan-
gerous occupation in Elizabethan
times, and doubly so for one of his
religion, He resided in Paris for
some time, and in 1598 visited
with a commission from
the Pope empowering him to pro-
mise James the support of the
Catholic nations in bis claim to
succeed Elizabeth, if Jutwrs would
promise to ameliorate the lot; of
Catholics in Kni'Jand after his
accession. Constable did not see
James, ami his mission was a
failure. When Jaincn did come to
the throne. Constable returned to
England, but: wan imprisoned in
the Tower for a few months. He
HENRY CONSTABLE
81
was released before December,
1604. Nothing more is known of
his lite except that he died at:
Liege on ()th October, 1613.
Constable's sonnet - sequence
"Diana first appeared in 1502, This
edition contained only 23 sonnets;
the second edition (1504) was
entitled Diana^ or the excellent con-
ceit/id Sonnets of I/. (L augmented
wilh divers Oiuitorwiitis of honorable
Aw 1 **
and krncd personages^ and contained
76 sonnets, many ot" which, how-
ever, are by other pens. ICight are
Sir Philip Sidney's; and none of
the additional poems can be as-
cribed with absolute certainty to
tot
Constable. His spiritual sonnets
were not printed until 1815. lie
contributed four charming poems
to England's Helicon (1600). Jlis
work is almost too scanty to give a
satisfactory display of his genius;
though some of his poems are
fantastic and full of conceits, he is
always correct and elegant, often
tuneful and captivating. He is,
like many contemporary sonneteers,
greatly indebted to French and
Italian models, especially Desportes
and Petrarch.
[Sir Sidney Lee, Elizabethan
Nonncts] editions of Constable by
W, C, Ha/lilt (1859) and John
5ray (1897),]
Of his inistrisse: upon occasion of her
walking in a Garden,
My lathers presence makes the roses red,
Because to see her lips they blush for shame:
The lilies leaves, for envy, pale became,
And her while bands in them this envy bred.
The marigold abroad the leaves doth spread,
Because the sun's and her power is the same;
The violet of purple colour came,
Dy'd with the blood she made my heart to shed.
In briefe all flowers from her their virtue take:
I'Yom her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed,
The living heate which her eye-bcames do make
VVarmeth the ground, and quickeneth the scedc.
The raine wherewith she watereth these flowers
Kails from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers.
To the Ladie Rich
Heralds at; armes doe three perfections quote;
To wit most faire, most rich, most glittering:
So when these three coneurrc within one thing,
Needs must that thing of honour be, of note,
Lately did I behold a rich faire coatc
Vok II
30
1IKNRY CONSTA'BLK
Which wished fortune to mine eyes did 1mm*;
A lordly coatc but: worthy of a kintf:
Wherein all these perfect ions one mij'ht note
A iicld of lilies, roses proper bare,
To stars in chieie, the erest was waver, of ^old:
How glittering' was the eoutc the starrs declare,
The lilies nuule it faire for to behold;
And rich it was, as by the ^old appears,
So happy he which in bis armes it beares.
Damelus Song lo Im Diafilwnia
Diapheniii like the I)uiT;uIown-dilIu\
White us the sunne, faire as the lillie,
Heigh hoe, how I doo love thee!
I doo love thce as my la tubs
Are beloved of their Dams,
"How blest were I if ihoti would \st proove me!
Diaphenia like the spreading Hoses,
That in thy sweet es all sweetes liu'loues,
Faire swceto, how 1 doo love thee!
[ doo love thee as each (lower
Loves the sunnc's life-^ivin^ power;
For dead, thy breath to life mitflit moove me,
Dhphcuia like to all things blessed,
When all thy praises are expressed,
Dcarc Joy, bow I doo love thee!
As the Bird doo love tlie spring
Or the Bees their carefull King;
r riicn in requite, sweet Virgin, love me,
SIR EDWARD DYKR
(d 1607 )
EDWARD DYER was born at date of his birth in unknown, and
rpham Park, Somersetshire, not much in known of Ins life. He
ch was destined, one hundred was educated at Oxford, but his
:s after his death, to be the college is not known with any cer-
tiplace of Henry Fielding. The tainty, and he tlitl not graduate.
MK IMJVYAKIJ IMIVK
3
He appears to have gone to court;
under the wing of Leicester, ami
was u favourite, though w>t a prime
favourite, of the queen, lie was
an intimate friend of Sir Philip
Sidney's, was a pull-bearer at his
funeral, and was bequeathed half
his books. lie was out of favour at
court for some time, but was sent
on diplomatic missions to the Low
Countries and Denmark, and in
1596 was appointed Chancellor
of the Order of the (Jarter and
knighted, He is said, not on the
best of evidence, to have been a
great waster of money and ;u * '*d-
chemist, The latter accusation, if
true, explains the former. I le died
in 1607,
Dyer had a great reputation as a
poet in his day, and was mentioned
by Meres as " famous for elegy ",
llis poems were never collected,
and many now arc lost, so that we
arc constrained to say of him what
Dnmunoml of Ihiwthornden said,
that his works " are so few that
have come to my hands, 1 cannot
well say anything of them, ". He
resembles u single-speech Hamil-
ton ", for his reputation is sus-
tained almost entirely by one
poem, My Alyndv to me a Kingdome
in. This is a famous and an excellent
poem, though perhaps the later
stair/as do not quite come tip to
the standard of the opening lines,
A, B, ( J rosart edited Dyer's writings
in 'Miscellanies of the Fuller Wor-
thier Library,
My Myncie to me a Kingdome is
My mynclc to me a kyngdomc is;
Such preasente joyes therein I fyndc,
That it exeells all other blisse
That earth altorcls or growes by kyndc:
Thoughe inueho I wante which moste would have
Yet still my mymle forblddes to crave,
No princely pompe, no wealthy store,
No force to winne the victoryc,
No wilyo wit to salve a aore,
No shape to feedc a lovingc eye;
To none of these I yicldc as thrall:
For why? My myndo doth serve for all,
I sec how plenty suffers ofte,
And hasty elymcrs sone do full;
I sec that those which are alofte,
Mishapp doth threaten moste of all;
They get with toylc, they kccpc with feare
Sxiche cares my myndc could never bearc.
SIR EDWARD DYKR
Content I live, this is my staye,
I sccke no more than, in aye suil'yse;
I pressc to beare HO haughty swayc;
Look what I lack, my inyiulc supplies:
Lo, thus I triumph like a kyiu>v,
Content with that my myiule doth hrin^c.
Home have too nmehc, yet still do crave;
1 little have, ami seek no more.
They are hut poore though muehe they have,
And I am ryehe with lyltlc store;
They poore, [ryehe; they bej^e, I ' jtyvc;
They lueke, I leave; they pyne, 1 lyve,
I laughe not; at another's losse,
I grudge not at another V gaync;
No wordly wanes my mynde can toss;
My state at: one dothe still rc.mayne;
[ fcarc no foe, I fawn no IViemle;
I loathe not lyfo nor dread my ende,
Some weighc their pleasure by theyre luste,
They re wisdom by theyre rage of \vyll;
Theyre treasure is theyre onlye truste,
A clokcd erafte theyre store of skylle,
But all the pleasure that I iymle
Is to mayntayne a cjuiet 1 mynde,
My wcalthe is hcalthe ami perfect ease;
My consctcnee eleere my choice defence:.
I neither secke by brybea to please^
Nor by deeeyte to breecle ollenee;
Thus do I lyve, thus will I" dye;
Would all did so \vell as I.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
85
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
1595)
ROBERT SOUTIHVWJ, was horn at
llorshani St. Faith's, Norfolk,
about 1561. lie was educated at
Douai and Paris, and at an early
age was fired with the ambition to
become a Jesuit. He attained his
desire in 1578, and spent the two
years of his novitiate at Tournai,
lie became prefect of studies in the
English College at; Rome, and was
ordained priest in 1584. In 1586
he went; to England, although two
years before a law had been enacted
by which any native-born subject
of the queen who had been ordained
a Roman Catholic, priest since the
first year of her accession was
guilty of treason if he resided in
England more than forty days, and
was subject to the death-penalty,
with the barbarous ceremonies re-
served for traitors. Brutal as this
law may at first; sight appear to be,
it was merely Elizabeth's not un-
natural rejoinder to the Pope, who
had excommunicated her, and whose
emissaries were stirrers-up of con-
spiracy and rebellion, and virtually
self-created outlaws, Southwell,
not being content; with being a
Jesuit, desired to he ix martyr, and
after a secret ministry of six years,
during which he assumed the name
of Cotton, and feigned an interest
in lield-sports to disguise his sacer-
dotal character, his ambition was
attained at; Tyburn on 2ist Feb-
ruary, 1595, At various times
during his previous two and a half
years' imprisonment he was tor-
tured, but with resolute firmness
refused to give any information on
any subject whatever.
Southwell's spectacular death has
given to his poems an interest
which they would not. otherwise
possess, especially, as is natural,
among his co-religionists. Much,
indeed, of Southwell's religious
verse can only be appreciated by
Roman Catholics. His longest
poem is 8t. Peter's Complaint,
nearly 800 lines long; his most
famous 77/tf Jhtrning Babe, which
(cmsou praised, He endeavoured
and a laudable endeavour it was-
to write sacred poetry which could
vie with contemporary profane
poetry. His poems are full of con-
ceits, antitheses, and paradoxes,
but have often rhetorical and
sometimes poetical merit. His
devotional prose is not widely
known.
[A. B. Grosart, The Complete
Poems of Robert Southwell, S.y.;
Ohristobel M. Hood, The Book of
Robert Southwell}
Tlie Burning Babe
As I in hoary Winter's night stood shivcringe in the snowe,
Surprised 1 was with sodaync heat, which made my hart to glowe;
And liftingc upp a fcarefull eye to vewe what fire was nere,
A prcty Babe all burninge bright, did in the ayre appeare.
86 ROBERT SOUTHWELL
Who scorched with excessive heate, such floodes of teares did shedtl,
As though His lloodes should quench Ilia flames which \vitli His t cures
were fcckl;
Alas! quoth He, but ne\vly borne, in fiery heates I frye,
Yet none approch to \vurmc their hartes or fcele my (ire bul 1 !
My faultles brcst the fornaee is, the fuell woundin^e thornes,
Love is the fire, and sighes the smoke, the ashes shame and scomes;
The fuell Justice hiycth on, and Mercy hlowes the eoales,
The mettall in this fomaeo wrought are men's defiled soules,
For which, as nowc on lire I am, to worke them to their j;ooO,
So will I melt into a bath to washe them in IVIy bloodc:
With this lie vanish t out of si^ht, and swiftly shroncke awaye,
And straight I called unto mymlc thai: it was Christmas-clave.
New Prince , New Poinpc
Behonld a sely tender Babe,
In freesing winter nibble,
In homely number trembling lie:;;
Alas, a pitious sis^hte!
The inns arc full, no man will ycldc
This little pilgrime bedd;
But fore'd lie is with sely beastes
In cribb to shroude I Us hcadd,
Despise not Htm for lyinge there,
I'irst what He is enquire*;
An orient pcrlc is often founde
In depth of dirty mire,
Waye not His cribb, His wotlden dishe,
Nor beastes that by Him fecde;
Way not His mother's poorc attire,
Nor Josephe's simple weede,
This stable is a Prince * eourte,
The cribb His chairc of State;
The beastes are purcell uf His pompe,
The woddcn dishc His plate,
The persons in that poorc attire
His royall liveries weurc ;
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
87
The Prince Himself us come from heaven,
This pompe is prised there,
With joy approeh, O Christian wightel
Do homage to thy Kiugc;
And highly prise His humble pompe
Which He from heaven dolh bringe,
SAMUEL DANIEL
1562 - 1619
SAMUKL DANIHI, was the son of n
music-muster, and was born near
Taunton in 1562. He was educated
at Magdalen ,11 id I (now Hertford
College), Oxford, but did not take
a degree. He visited Italy, prob-
ably 'before 1590, \vhen he became
tutor to William Herbert, after-
wards Karl of Pembroke and
Shakespeare's patron. He became,
as was natural, a firm friend,
of u Sidney's sister, Pembroke's
mother ". hi 1591 twenty-seven of
his sonnets were printed without
permission in Naah's edition of
Sidney's A$trof>lie! and Stella,
Daniel was annoyed at this liberty,
especially as his sonnets were dis-
figured by typographical mistakes,
and he was a man who always de-
sired that his work should appear
without; spot or blemish. ^ Accord-
ingly in 1592 he published his
collection of 'sonnets* Delia, which
originally contained fifty poems,
but which was augmented in later
editions, in which The Comptaynt
of Rosamond was also inserted.
Daniel's sonnets were well liked,
and are for the most part good;
but, like many Elizabethan sonnets,
they owe a heavy debt to conti-
nental sonneteers. His Seoecan
tragedy Cleopatra appeared also in
later editions of Delta. It was a
companion piece to Lady Pem-
broke's Attionie, In 1595 he pub-
lished the first instalment of his
largest work 7'V/\v/ Fowre Kookcs
of llw Chile Warm between ///<? two
Houses of Lancaster and Yorkc.
A, fifth, book appeared in the same
year, the sixth in 1601, and the
seventh and eighth books in 1609,
Jonsoa complained about this poem,
" Daniel wrott Civil Warres, and
yell hath not one batlc in all his
Book ". It; is a somewhat prosaic
poem, with occasional good pas-
sages, and a very competent style
of workmanship throughout. About
1598 Daniel became tutor to the
young daughter of the Countess of
Cumberland; he liked his pupil,
but not his work. In 1599 he pub-
lished Mtisophilus or a General
Defence of Learning His poems
were all popular, and most of them
ran into several editions. In 1602
he wrote his excellent pamphlet
A Defence of Ryme, in which
he successfully opposed Campion's
attack on rhyme. When James
came to the throne Daniel sent him
a Panegyricke GoiigratulatQrw> and
consequently soon acquired a com-
fortable position at court. He was
appointed inspector of the children
of the queen s revels, and Had now
to organise and \vrite entertain-
ments. His tragedy of Wrih>t<is t
based on Plutarch's Life of < lA'.v-
ander, almost got him into serious
trouble, and was not, a success. 1 1 is
prose History of England is well
written but is not a scholarly piece
of work, His court entertainments
include The Vision of I he Twelve
Goddesses , The Oiteem \v Arcadia t
' *%i '
Tethys Festival (written to celebrate
Prince Henry's creation as Knight
of the Bath), and Hymens Triumph.
All these pieces contain good writ-
ing, but Daniel was by nature too
serious to succeed in such trifles,
In 1607 he was appointed one of
the grooms of the queen's privy
chamber, and was henceforward
in a position of afllucnce, though
he did not feel quite at home
in his work. In his old age he
turned agriculturalist, and rented
a farm in Wiltshire, where he
died.
Few of the greater Elizabethans
arc less appreciated than Daniel,
in spite of the cordial praise which
Coleridge, Lamb, and Ilaxlilt he-
stowed upon his work, Coleridge
says^ that his '* stylo and language
are just such as any very pure and
manly writer of the present day
Wordsworth, for example -would
use; it seems quite modern in com-
parison with the style of Shake-
speare ", The later seventeenth
ana we a^mcentii century, unable
to stomach the Kli/ahctlians as a
whole, found Daniel more "cor-
rect " ami therefore more tolerable
than most of his contemporaries.
Ami yet to day many critics niree
with Jonson that Daniel \vas" a
t>ood honest man , . . hot no
poet ". lie was not happy in his
choice ^ of subjects; his historical
poem is^ neither j,;ood history nor
i^ood poetry; his sonnets are imita-
tive, lus masques perfunctory. In
some of his epistles and shorter
poems his shifts are seen to better
advantage. lie uas an excellent
critic and, \\hat docs not always
follow, an admirable self- critic,
lie revised his work not once hut
many times, as carefully as did
Tennyson. He took a lofty view of
the dignity of the jiiofossion of
letters without taking an unduly
exalted view of his own perfor-
mances therein, HIM ideas on the
importance ami the future of the
English lan^ua^e should endear
him to all who share those views,
Well does he deserve the epithet
" \vell-lan t i>uaged ". lie has been
acclaimed as a " poets* pool '\ hut
he is so, perhaps , less on account
of the charm of his \\nrk than on
account of his absolute devotion to
the craft of letters,
I A, II (Jmsart, The I Ms of
muel l)aniei\ Sir A, T. Quiller-
Couch, .'Ith't'tttttm In O'///mw|
Delia
SONNET i
Vnto the boundlesse Ocean of thy hcautie,
Runncs this poorc Riuer, eharg'd with strcames of xealo:
Returning thce the tribute of sny dutic,
Which here my lone, my youth, my plaintn reueulc,
SAMUEL DANIEL
Here 1 vnelaspe the Booke of my eluirgU soule,
Whore I haue cast, th' accounts of all my care:
Here haue 1 summW my sighs, here I inrole
I low they were spent for ihoo; looke what they are:
Looke on the deerc expenees of my youth,
And see how iust 1 reckon with thine CMOS:
Examine well thy beaut ie with my truth,
And crossc my cares ere greater sunnnes arise.
Reade it (sweet maide) though it be done but, sleightly;
Who can shew all his lone, doth lone but lightly.
SONNET VI
Faire is my Lone, and cruell as she's faire;
Her brow shades frownes, although her eyes are sunny,
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despaire;
And her tlisdames are (Jail, her fiuiours liunny.
A modest; Maide, deckt: with a blush of honor,
Whose I co to doc tread greene paths of youth and louc,
The wonder of all eyes that looke vpon her:
Sacred on earth, design 'd a Saint abouc,
Cluistitio and Beautie, which were deadly foes,
Line reconciled friends within her brow:
And had she pitty to eonioyue with those,
Then who had heard the plaints 1 vttcr now?
For hud she not beene faire and thus vnkinde,
My Muse had slept, and none had knowne my mimic,
Song from "Hymen's Triumph"
Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant; that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
,lf not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
1 leigh-ho !
Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting.
Why so?
SAMUKL BANIKL
More we on joy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it; sighing cries,
Heigh-ho!
To the Ladie Margaret, Countesse
of Cumberland
He that of such a height hath built his mimic,
And rear 'd the dwelling of his thoughts so Hlnmi?;,
As neither feare nor hope emi shake the frame
Of his rcsolucd pow'rs, nor all the \vimle
Of vanitie or maliee pierce to \vrom*
His setled peace, or to dlsturbe the same;
What a fairc scute hath he, from whence he may
The boundlcssc wastes and wilder. of man suruav,
And with how free an eye doth he looke downe
Vpon these lower regions of turmoyle!
Where all the stonues of passions mainly beat
Oil flesh and hloud; whore honour, powV, rcnowne
Are oncly guy uttlietions, golden toylc;
Where greatuesso stands vpon as feeble feet
As frailty doth, and oncly great, doth sceme
o little minds, who doe it so estceme.
He lookcs vpon the mightiest Monarches warren
But oncly as on stately robberies;
Where eucrmore the fortune that preuailes
Must be the right; the ill-sueemliug marrcs
The fairest and the best-fae't enterprise;
Groat Pint Poinpey lesser Pirats {[uailes;
Justice, he sees, as if seduced, still
Conspires with powV, whose cause must not IKS ill.
He sees the face of Right t* appcare as manifolde
As are the passions of vncertuine man;
Who puts it in all colours, all attires,
To serue his ends and make his courses holder
He sees, that let Deceit worke what it can,
Plot and contriuc base \vayes to high, desires;
That the all-guiding Prouidcncc doth yet
All disappoint, and mocks this smoukc of wit,
SAMUEL DANIEL
Nor is he mou'd with all the thunder-cracks
Of Tyrants threats, or \vith the surly brow
Of power, that proudly sits on others crimes,
Charted with more crying sinnes then those he checks;
The stonncs of sad confusion, that may grow
Vp in the present, for the conuning times,
Appall not him, that hath no side at all
Bui of hitnselfe, and knowes the worst can fall.
Although his heart, so ncere allied to earth,
Cannot but pitty the perplexed State
Of troublous and distrest mortalitic,
That: thus make way vnto the ougly birth
Of their ovvnc sorrowes, and cloe still beget
AlHiction vpon imbedllitie;
Yet, seeing thus the course of things must nmne,
lie lookes thereon, not strange, but; as foredone.
And whilst distraught Ambition compasses
And is ineompast; whilst as craft deeeiues
And is deeeiuecl; whilst man doth ransaeke man,
And builds on bloud, and rises by distresses
And lit' inheritance of desolation leaucs
To great expecting hopes; he lookes thereon
As from the shore of peace with vuwet eie,
And beares no venture in impictie.
Thus, Madam, fares Unit man that hath prepared
A rest for his desires, and sees all things
Beneath him, and hath learn M this bookc of man,
Full of the notes of frailty, and compared
The best of glory with her sufferings:
By whom 1 see you labour all you can
To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as neare
His glorious mansion as your pow'rs can bcare.
Which, Madam, are so soundly fashioned
By that clcerc Judgement that hath carryed you
Beyond the feeble limits of your kinde,
As they can stand against the strongest head
Passion can make; inur'd to any hue
The world can cast; that cannot cast that minde
Out of her forme of goodncssc, that doth sec
Both what the best and worst of earth can be.
91
b/VMUJSJU UALNUU,
Which makes, that whatsoeuer here bcfalles
You in the region of your sclfe remaine;
Where no vainc breath of th* impudent molests.
That hath sccur'd within the brasen, walles
Of a clocrc conscience, that without all stuine
Rises in peace, in innocencie rests;
Whilst all what malice from without procures,
Shewcs her owne ougly heart, but hurts not yours.
And whereas none rcioyee more in reuenge
Then women vsc to doe; yet you well know.
That wrong is better eheckt, by being contemn M
Then being pursu'd: leaning to him t ' aueni',e
To whom it appertained; wherein you show
How worthily your cleerencsse bath condemn M
Base malediction, lining in the darke,
That at the rates of goodnesse still cloth barke.
Knowing the heart of man is set to be
The centre of this world, about the which
These rcuolutions of disturbances
Still roule; where all th* aspects of miserie
Predominate; whose strong effects are such
As lie must beare, being pow Ylcsse to redressc;
And that vnlesse aboue himselfe he can
Erect himselfe, how poore a thing is man !
And how turmoyrd they are, that leuell lie
With earth, and cannot: lift themselues from thence;
That ncuer are ut peace with their desires,
But worke beyond their yecrcs, and euen dente
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispence
With death; that when ability expires,
Desire Hues still: so much delight they liaue
To carry toyle and trauell to the grime.
Whose ends you sec, and what can be the best
They reach vnto, when they haue cast; the summt:
And reckonings of their glory; and you knmv
This floting life hath but this Fort of rest,
A heart prcpar'd, thai/cam no ill to come;
And that mans greatnesse rests but in his slum ;
The best of all whose clayes consumed are
Either in warre, or peaee concerning wurre.
SAMUEL DANIEL 93
This concord, Madame, of a, well-tuny minclc
! Fatlx bccnc so set, by that all-working hand
Of hcaucn, that though the world hath done his worst
To put it out, by discords most vnkindc;
Yet doih it still in perfect vnion stand
With (Joel and man, nor euer will be fore't
From that most sweet accord, but still agree
[{quail in Fortunes inequalitie.
And this note (Madame) of your worthinesse
Remaines recorded in so many hearts,
As time, nor malice cannot: wrong your right
In th j inheritance of Fame you must; possess e;
You that hane built you by your great deserts,
Out of small meanes, a farre more exquisit
And glorious dwelling for your honoured name
Then all the gold that leaden minds can, frame.
From U A Defence of Ryme"
But; yet now notwithstanding all this which I haue hccre deliuered
in the defence of Ryme, I am not so farrc in loue with mine owne mysterie,
or will seeme so froward, as to bee against the reformation, aad the
better selling these measures of ours. Wherein there be many things,
I could wish were more certaine and better ordered, though my selfe
dare not take vpon me to be a teacher therein, hauing so much neede
to learne of others. And I must eonfesse, that to mine owne care, those
eontimiall cadences of couplets vsed in long and continued Poemes,
are very tyresome, and vnpleasing, by reason that still, me thinks, they
runne on with a sound of one nature, and a kincle of eertaintie which
stuffs the delight rather then intcrtaincs it. But yet notwithstanding,
I must not out of mine owne daintincsse, eondemnc this kinde of writing,
which peraducnturc to another may seeme most delightfull, and many
worthy compositions we see to hauc passed with commendation in that
kincle. Besides, me tlunkes sometimes, to beguile the care, with a running
out, and passing oner the Ryme, as no bound to stay vs in the line where
the violence of the matter will breake thorow, is rather gracefull then
otherwise* Wherein I, fine my Homcr-Lucan, as if he gloried to seeme
to haue no bounds, albeit hoe were confined within liis measures, to
be in .my conceipt most happy. For so thereby, they who care not for
Verse or Ryme, may passe it oucr without taking notice thereof, and
please themselues with a well -measured Prose, And I must eonfesse
94 SAMUEL DANIEL
my Aduersary hath wrought this much vpon, me, that I thinkc u
Tragcdie would indcede best comporte with a. blank Verse, and dispetiee
with Ryme, sailing in the Chorus or where a sentence shall require a
couplet. And to auoydc this ouerglutting the care with that alwayes
certaine, and ful incountcr of Ryme, 1 haue assald in some of my Epistles
to alter the vsuall place of meeting, ami to sette it further oil" by one
Verse, to trie how I could disuse my owne eare and to ease it of this
continuall burthen, which indeecle secmes to surcharge it a, little too
much, but as yet I cannot come to please my sclfe therein: this alternate
or crosse Rymc holding still the best place in my affection.
Besides, to me this change of number in a Poem of one nature (its
not so wel, as to mixe vneertainly, fern mine Rymes with masculine
which, euer since I was warned of that dcibnniiie by my kitule friend
and countriman Maister Hugh Saw/on!^ I luuie alwayes so atioyclcd it,
as there are not abouc two couplcttes in that; kincle i"n all my Poem of
the Ciuili wanes: and I would willingly if I eoulcle, haue aftcred it in
all the rest, holding feminine Rymcs to be fittest for Ditties, and either
to be set certaine, or else by themsclucs. But in these things, I say, I
dare not take vpon mce to teach that they ought to be so, in respect my
selfc holdes them to be so, or that I thinkc it right; for indeede there
is no right in these things that are continually in a wamlring motion,
carried with the violence of our vncertaine likings, being but oncly the
time that giues them their power. For if this right, or truth, should be
no other thing then that wee make it, we shall shape it; into a thousand
figures, seeing this excellent painter Man, can so well lay the colours
which himselfe grindes in his owne affections, as that hec will make them
serue for any shadow, and any counterfeit. Hut the greatest himlcrer
to our proceedings, and the reformation of our crrours, is this Sclfe-
loue, whereunto we Versifiers are euer noted to be especially subject;
a disease of all other, the most dangerous, and incurable, being once
seated in the spirits, for which there is no cure, but oncly by a spiritual!
remedy. Multos puto, ad sapimtiam potuissr pmtrniw, nhf fwf assent sc
peruemsse; and this opinion of our sulliciencie makes so great a cracke
m our iudgemcnt, as it wil hardly euer holde any thing of worth, daeeus
amor mi, and though it would scenic to see all without; it;, yet certainely
it chscernes but little within, For there is not the simplest writer that
will euer tell himselfe, he doth ill, but as if he were the parasite oncly
to sooth his owne doings, perswades him that; his lines can not but please
others, which so much delight himselfe:
Suffemts est quisqtw sibL . mqiw idem mqmm
Aeque est heat us, ac poema cum scnhtt,
Tarn gaitdek in se iamque sc ipsc mtmtttr,
And the more to shew that he is so, we shall sec him cuermorc
SAMUKL DANIEL 95
in all places, and to all persons repeating his owne compositions: and,
Oucm two arripnlt, tenet occiditque kgcndo.
Next to this doforniitie stands our affectation, wherein we alwayes
bewray our seines to be both vnkimlc, and vnnaturall to our owne natiuc
language, in disguising or forging strange or vnvsuall wordes, as if it
were to make our verse seeme an other kind of speaeh out of the course
of our vsuall practise, displacing our wordes, or inuesting new, oncly
vpon a singularitie: when our owne accustomed phrase, set: in the due
place, would expresse vs more familiarly and to better delight, than all
this idle affectation of antiquitie, or noueltie can euer cloe. And I can
not but; wonder at the strange presumption of some men that dare so
audaciously aduenture to introduce any whatsoeuer forraine wordes,
be they neuer so strange; and of themselues as it were, without a Parliament,
without; any consent, or allowance, establish them as Free-denizens
in our language. But this is but a Character of that perpctuall rcuolution
which wee see to be in all things that neuer rcmaiuc the same, and we
must hecrein be content to submit ourselues to the law of time, which
in few yeeres wil make al that for which we now contend, Nothing.
SIR "OHN DA VIES
+.1
(1569-1626)
SIR JOHN DA.VIHK was the son of
a Wiltshire gentleman, and was
bom in 1569, lie was educated at
Winchester and Queen's College,
Oxford, where be graduated B.A.
in 1590, In 1588 he was admitted
a member of the Middle Temple,
and was called to the Bar in 1595*
Ilis celebrated poem, Orchestra, or
a Pocwc of Dancing^ appeared in
1596, It is written in 131 stanzas of
seven lines, and was composed in
fifteen clays. It is a remarkable
tour de force, and in spite of its
subject, may be read with very
considerable pleasure, It was
dedicated to his friend Richard
Martin, subsequently recorder of
London, to whom Jonson after-
wards dedicated his Poetaster. In
1598 the two friends quarrelled,
and Davies broke a cudgel on Mar-
tin's head in the hall of the Middle
Temple. Martin on one occasion
pointed out that " Judas " was an
anagram of " Davis " (as it is,
since i and / are the same letter,
and v and u also rank as equiva-
lents); but whether this was the
cause or the effect of the quarrel is
not clear. Davies was disbarred,
and spent his enforced leisure at
Oxford in composing Nosce Teip~
sum (1599), a poem on the immor-
tality of the soul, written in the
metre of Gray's Elegy. It is one
9 6
SIR JOHN DAVIKS
of the best didactic poems in
the language, and its popularity
did something to rchahililale its
author's reputation. His Hymns
to Astraea, twenty-six poems
each one of which is an acrostic
(ELISABETHA REGINA), also
helped his career, and he was
employed in writing entertainments
for the court. In 1601 he was re-
instated at the Bar, and his life
was thenceforward devoted to law
and politics rather than literature.
He soon gained the favour of
King James, who appointed him
Solicitor- General for Ireland and
knighted him in 1603. In 1606 ho
was promoted to be Attorney-
General for Ireland, and he remained
in that country until 1619, becom-
ing Speaker of the Irish Parliament;
in 1613. lie played a prominent
part in the plantation of Ulster, and
made a determined though unsuc-
cessful effort to banish all Roman
Catholic priests from Ireland. In
1612 he published his prose treatise
A Discoverie of the True Causes why
Ireland was never entirely subdued,
*/ *
nor brought under Obedience of the
(trowne of England, untill the ttc-
ginning of his Majesties haf^ic
Raigne. He also wrote a legal
treatise in law-French, In 1619 he
returned to England, where he
practised as king's serjeant lie
was appointed Olid' Justice in
1626, but: died of apoplexy before
be took office. He bad been loo
stout for many years; Manningham
in bis Diary (1603) alluded to his
corpulence and waddling gait in
terms so indelicate that the editor
of the Diary for the Camden
Society fell: compelled to suppress
the passage,
Davies was an easy writer, and
rose superior to the not very promis-
ing; subjects which be selected and
to the didicnlt verse-forms which
be sometimes chose. His didactic
poem is entertaining, and his
acrostics are poems, not; mere verse-
exercses. In his (hilling
he pleasantly ridiculed that: fashion-
able verse-form ; in his /tynframs
he rivalled the coarseness but
not; the charm of Martial, llts
works have been edited by A. IJ.
Grosart.
From "Nosce Teipsum"
An Acclamation
Oh! what is man (great Maker of mankind!)
That Thou to him so great respect; dost; beare!
That Thou adornst him with so bright a mind,
Mak'st him a king, and cucn an angel's pccro!
0! what a liucly life, what heauenly power,
What spreading vertue, what a sparkling lire,
How great, how plcntifull, how rich a dower
Dost Thou within this (lying flesh inspire!
r 1 1
SIR JOHN DAVIES
Thou leanest Thy print In other works of Thine,
But, Thy whole image Thou in Man hast writ:
There cannot he a creature more cliuine,
Except (like Thee) it should he iniinit.
But it exceeds man's thought, to thinke how hie
(Joel hath raiscl man, since God a man became:
The angels doe admire this Mistcrie,
And are astonish! when they view the same.
That the Sonic is Immortal, and cannot Die
Nor hath He giuen these blessings for a day,
Nor made them, on the bodices life depend:
The Soule though made in time, suruiues for aye,
And though it hath beginning, sees no end.
Her onely end, is neuer-ending blisse;
Which is, th* eternal! face of God to see;
Who Last of Ends, and First of Causes, is:
And to doe this, she must eternall bee.
How scnselesse then, and dead a soule hath hee,
Which thinks his soule doth with his body die!
Or thiukes not so, but so would haue it bee,
That he might sinnc with more sccuritie,
For though these light and vicious persons say,
Our soule is but a smoakc or ayrie blast;
Which, during life, cloth in our nostrils play,
And when we die, doth tunic to wind at last;
Although they say, " Come let xis eat and drinke ";
Our life is but a sparkc, which quickly dies:
Though thus they say, they know not what to think,
But: in their minds ten thousand doubts arise.
Therefore no hcretikes desire to spread
Their light opinions, like these Epicures:
For so the staggering thoughts arc comforted,
And other men's assent their doubt assures,
n,
SIR JOHN DAVIHfi
Yet though these men against their conscience striue,
There arc some sparkles In their flint io breasts
Which cannot ho extinct, but still rcuiue;
That though they would, they eannot; quite bee hcasls;
But xvho so makes a mirror of his mind,
And doth with patience view himselle therein,
His Scale's cternitie shall elearely fintl,
Thourh th' other beauties be defae't with sin.
From "Orchestra"
For that braue Sunne the Father of the Day,
Doth luuc this Earth, the Mother of the Night;
And like u rcucllour in rich aray,
Doth claunce his gal Hard in his lenmiauls si^ht,
Both back, and forth, and sidewaics, passing light;
His princely grace doth so the gods aniaxe,
That all stand still and at: his beauty ga/o.
But sec the Iv.irth, when she approcheth neere,
How she for ioy doth spring, and sweetly smile;
But sec agaiue her sad and heauy eheere
When changing places he retires a while;
But those blake cloudes lie shortly will exile >
And make them all before his presence (lye,
As mists consumed before his choc* re full eye.
Who doth not see the measures of the Mot mo,
Which tlurtccnc times she dauneeth cuery yeure?
And ends her pauine, thirtecuc times as soonc
As doth her brother, of whose golden haire
She borrowed! part, and proudly doth it weare;
Then doth she coyly turne her face aside,
Then halfc her cheeke is searse sometimes diserido
Next her, the pure, subtile, and ekusing Fire
Is swiftly carried in a circle euen:
Though Vulcan be pronounst by many, a Iyer,
The only halting god that dwcls in hea\ien:
But that foule name may be more fitly giueu
To your false Fire, that farre from hcaucn is fall:
And doth consume, waste, spoile, disorder all.
SIR JOHN DAVIES 99
And now behold your tender nurse the Ayre
And common neighbour that ay runns around:
How many pictures and impressions faire
Within her empty regions are there found,
Which to your senees Dauncing doe propound!
For what arc Breath, Speech, Kechos, Musickc, Winds,
But Pauncings of the Ayre in sundry kinds?
For when you breath, the ayre in order moues,
Now in, now out, in time and measure trew;
And when you spenke, so well she damieing loues,
That doubling oft, and oft redoubling new,
With thousand formes she doth her sclfe endew:
For all the words that from our lips rcpairc
Are nought but tricks and turnings of the ayre.
Hence is her pratling daughter Eceho borne,
That dauuees to all voyces she can heare:
There is no sound so harsh that slice cloth scorne,
Nor any time wherein shee will forbcare
The ayrie pauement; with her feet to wcare:
And yet; her hearing sencc is nothing quick,
For after time she endcth cuery trick.
And ihou sweet, Musieke, Dauaeing's onely life,
The care's sole happinesse, the ayre's best spcach,
Loadstone of fellowship, charming-rod of strife,
The soft mind's Paradice, the sickc mind's leach,
With thine own toug, thou trees and stons canst teach,
That when the Aire doth dance her -finest measure,
Then art thou borne, the gods and mens sweet pleasure.
Lastly, where keepe the Winds their reuelry,
Their violent turnings, and wild whirling hayes,
But in the Ayrc's tralucent gallery?
Where shee herselfe is turnd a hundreth wayes,
While with those Maskers wantonly she playes;
Yet in this misrule, they such rule embrace,
As two at. once eneombcr not the place.
If then fire, ayre, wandring and fixed lights
In encry prouincc of the imperiall side,
Yeeld perfect formes of dauncing to your sights,
SIR JOHN DAVIES
In vainc I teach the care, that which the eye
With ccrtainc view already cloth clcscric.
But for your eyes pcrceiue not all they see,
In this 1 will your Senses Master bee.
For loc the Sea that fleets about the Land,
And like a girdle clips her solide waist,
Musickc and measure both doth vnderstand:
For his great chrystall eye is alwayes cast
Vp to the Moone, and on her fixed fast:
And as she dauneeth in her pallid sphccre,
So claunccth he about his center heere.
Sometimes his proud greene wanes in order set,
One after other How vnto the shore,
Which, when they haue with many kisses wet,
They ebbe away in order as before;
And to make kuownc his courtly lone the more,
lie oft doth lay aside his three-forkt mace,
And with his annes the timorous Earth embrace.
Oncly the Earth cloth stand for euer still:
Her rocks remouc not, nor lier mountaines meet,
(Although some wits enricht with Learning's skill
Say heau'n stands lirme, and that the Harlh doth licet,
And swiftly turneth vnderneath their feet)
Yet though the Karth is euer stcdfast; scene,
On her broad breast hath Dauncing euer bcenc.
xtts .A'A'AVA' -LI.)
Hymns to Astraea
IIYMNK V
To the Larke
E Earlcy, cheerful], mounting Larke,
I, Light's gentle vshcr, Morning's dark,
I In merry notes delighting:
S Stint awhile thy song, and harke,
A And learnc my new inditing.
SIR JOHN DAVIES 101
B Bearc vp this hynme, to hctiu'n it beare,
1C linen vp to heau/n, and sing it; there,
T To hcau'n each morning beare it;
II I lane it; set to some sweet sphere,
A And let the Angels heare it,
R Renownd Astracu, that great name,
1C Exceeding great in worth and fame,
G Great worth hath so rcnownd it;
I, It is Astnica's name I praise,
N Now then, sweet Larke, do thou it raise,
A And in high lleanen resound it.
^grammes
Of a Cull
Oft; in my laughing rimes, T name a Gull;
But: this new tenne will many questions breed;
Therefore at first I will expresse at full,
Who is a true and perfect Gull indeed:
A Gull is he who feares a veluet gowne,
And, when a weneh is braue, dares not speak to her;
A Gull is he which trauerseth the towne,
And is for marriage known a common \voer;
A Gull is he which while he proudly weares,
A siltier-hilted rapier by his side,
Imtures the lyes and knocks about the earcs,
Whilst in his sheath his sleeping sword doth bide;
A Gull is he which weares good handsome cloaths,
And stands, in Presence, stroaking up his hairc,
And fills up his imperfect speech with oaths,
But to define a Gull in tonnes precise,
A Gull is he which secmcs, and is not wise.
KING JAMES VI AND I
KING JAMES VI AND I
"W
(1566-1625)
KING JAMES VI of Scotland and
I of England was the only son of
Mary Queen of Scots and her
cousin Henry, Lord Darnley, and
was born in Edinburgh Castle in
1566. In 1567, after the forced
abdication of his mother, he was
crowned at Stirling, and his child-
hood was passed under the direc-
tion of the Earl of Mar and the
tuition of George Buchanan (q.v,).
His reign in Scotland was notable
for his struggles with the Presby-
terian clergy and the Roman Catho-
lic nobility; iu the end he suc-
ceeded fairly well in getting his own
way. When he ascended the throne
of England in 1603, he found that
his methods were not nearly so suc-
cessful. His Scottish favourites and
his Scottish manners and accent did
not endear him to the people of
England, and his struggles with
Parliament and arbitrary methods
of taxation laid the foundations of
the Great Rebellion. The poisoning
of Sir Thomas Overbury and the
judicial murder of Raleigh (q,v.)
did much to destroy the remnants
of his popularity; and his favourite
scheme of a Spanish marriage for
Prince Charles, and its total failure,
embittered the concluding years of
his reign. He died in 1625.
James desired to shine in many
branches of literature. He would
fain have been a poet, a theologian,
a critic, and a publicist. In no
department does lus work rise
above a decent: mediocrity, though
it has an interest of its own. The
Kssaycs of a Prcntlsv in the Divine
Art of Potw (i'5&|.) is what might
be expected from a precocious lad
of eighteen; the critical precepts
which the volume contains are
more interesting than the poems
which are by way of illustrat-
ing them, tttisilicwi Down (1599)
is addressed to Prince Henry,
and contains instructions for his
" dearest sotine ami natural sue-
eessour ". J)cinonolo^ic (i5<)7) is a
dialogue not: without interest, in
which he attempts to combat; the
views of Reginald Scot (q.v,). Iu
A, CwiHlcrbhtsIc to Tobacco he at-
tempted, with the futility of Dame
Partington, to put u stop to the
practice of smoking. 1 Us theological
and other political writings scarcely
deserve separate enumeration. His
collected works were published in
a sumptuous folio edition in 1616,
edited by James Montagu, Bishop
of Winchester, who also prepared
a Latin version (published I(>H))
lest the continent of Europe should
be deprived of the benefit of
perusing the royal author's treatises,
[A. ,K, Wcsteott, New Poems of
James I from tt hitherto //;//)///)-
It shed MS. lit the ttritish Mnsenm\
C. H. Mdlwaiu, Political^ Work*
of King James /; R. S- Rait, IM&US
Regius. \
KING JAMES VI AND 1 103
Ane Schort Treatise, containing some
Reulis and Cautelis to be Obseruit and
Eschewit in Scottis Poesie
The Preface to the Reader
The cause why (docile Reader) 1 have not declieat this short treatise
to any particular personis, (as commouuly worlds usis to be) is, that I
cstcnic all thais quha lies already some beginning of knawleclge, with
ane earnest dc\syre to atteyne to farther, alyke meit for the reading of this
worke, or any uther, quhilk may help thame to the attorning to their
foirsuicl desyre. Bot as to this work, quhilk is mtitulit, The Reulis andcautelis
to be obseniit and cschcwit in Scottis Pocsie, y,c may marvell peraventure,
quhairfore 1 would hauc writtin in that mater, sen sa mony Icarnit
men, baith of aukl and of late lies already written thairof in dyuers and
sindry languages: I, answer, That notwithstanding, I hauc lykewayis
writtin of it, I'or t,vvu eaussis: The ane is, As for them that wrait of auld,
lykc as the tyme is changeit sensyne, sa is the ordour of Poesie changeit.
For then they obseniit; not Flowing^ nor esehcwit not Rymlng in termes,
besydes sindrie uther thingis, quhilk now we observe, and eschew, and
dois weil in sa doing: because that now, quhen the warld is waxit auld,
we hane all their opinionis in writ, quhilk were learned before our tyme,
besydes our awin ingynis, qubair as they then did it onclie be thair awin
ingynis, but help of any uther, Thairfore, quhat I speik of Poesie now,
I speik of it, as being come to mannis age and perfectioun, quhair as
then, it was hot in the infaneie and chyklheid. The uther cause is, That
as for than ic that hes written in it of late, there lies never ane of thatne
written in our language. For albeit sindrie lies written of it in English,
quhilk is lykest to our language, zit we differ from thamc in sindrie reulis
of Poesie, as zc will line! be experience. I have lykewayis omittit dyuers
figures, quhilkis are aeeessare to be usit in verse, for two eaussis. The
ane is, because they are xisit in all languages, and thairfore are spolcin
of be Du Itcllayt and sindrie utlieris, quha hes written in this airt.
Quhairfore gif I wrait of them also, it sould seme that I did hot repete
that, quhilk they haue written, and zit not sa weil, as they haue done
already. The uther caxisc Is, that they are figures of Rhetoriquc and Dia-
lectique, quhilkis airtis I professe nocht, and thairfore will apply to my
sclfe the eounsale, quhilk Apdks gaue to the shoemaker, quhen he said
to him, seing him find fait with the shankis of the Image of Venus,
efter that he had found fait with the pantoun, Ne sutor ultra crepidam.
I will also wish BOW (docile Rcidar) that or ze cummer zow with
reicling thir reulis, ze may find in zour self sic a beginning of Nature,
I04 KING JAMKS VI AND 1
as ze may put in practise in wmr verse many of lliir foirsaidis preeeptis,
or euer ze sic them as they arc heir set doun. For gif Nature he noeht
the cheif worker iu this airt, Rculis wilbe bot a band to Nature, and
will mak zow within short: space weary of the haill airt: quhair as, gif
Nature be chcif, and bent to It, reulis will be sine help and stair to Nature.
I will end heir, lest my preface be lunger nor my purpose and haill muter
following: wishing xo\v, docile Reidar, als guile success and great prolfeit:
by reiding this short treatise, as T take earnist and willing panis to blok
it, as ze sic, for Hour cause. Fare weill.
From U A Countcrblaste to Tobacco 13
And for the vanities committed in this filtlue customs, is it not both
great vanitie and undeaaenesse, that at: tlie table, a place of respect,
of clcanlincssc, of modestie, men should not be ashamed, to sit; tossing
of Tobacco pipes, and puffing of the smoke of Tobacco one to another,
making the filthy smoke and stinke thereof, to exhale athwart: the dishes,
and infect the aire, when very often, men that abhorre it are at their
repast? Surely Smoke becomes a kitehin far better then a I )ming chamber,
and yet it makes a kitehin also oftentimes in the inward parts of men,
soiling and infecting them, with an unctuous and oily kinde of Sooto,
as hath bcnc found in some great Tobacco takers, that after their death
were opened. And not onely meatc time, but no other time nor action
is exempted from the puhlike use of this uncivill tneke: so as if the
wives of Diepe list to contest with this Nation for good manors their
worst mancrs would in all reason be found at least not so dishonest (as
ours are) in this point. The publike use whereof, at all times, and in
all places, hath now so farre preuailed, as diucrs men very sound both
in lodgement, and complexion, luuie bene at last form I to take if also
without desire, partly because they were ashamed to scenic singular,
(like the two Philosophers that were forced to duck thcmselues in that
raine water, and so become fooles as well as the rest of the people) and
partly, to be as one that was content to eatc (Jarlioke (which bee did
not love) that he might not be troubled with the smell of it, in the breath
of his fellowes. And is it not a great vanitie, that a man cannot heartily
welcome his friend now, but straight they must bee in hand with TolwccoJ
No it is become in place of a cure, a point of good fellowship, and he
that will refuse to take a pipe of Tobacco among his fcllowes, (though
by his own election he would rather feclc the sauour of a Sinke) is
accounted peeuish and no good company, ction as they doc with tippeling
in the cold Eastcrne Countries. Yea the JMistresse cannot in a more
manerly kinde, entertaine her seruunt, then by giuing him out of her
faire hand a pipe of Tobacco. But herein is not onely a great vanitie, hut
KING JAMES VI AND I
a great contempt of (Hods good giftcs, that the swcctcnesse of mans
breath, being a good gift of God, should be willfully corrupted by this
stinking smoke, wherein I must; confcsse, it hath too strong a vcrtuc:
and so that which is an ornament of nature, and can neither by any
artifice be at the first acquired, nor once lost, be recoticred againc, shall
be filthily corrupted with an incurable stinkc, which vile qualitie is as
directly contrary to that wrong opinion which is holdcn of the wholc-
somnesse thereof, as the venimc of putrifaction is contrary to the vertue
Presernallne.
Moreoucr, which is a great iniquitic, and against all humanitie, the
husband shall not bee ashamed, to reduce thereby his delicate, whole-
some, and cleane ecmiplexioned wife, to that cxtremitie, that cither shee
must also corrupt her swcetc breath therewith, or else resoluc to Hue in
a perpetuall stinking torment.
Haue you not reason then to bee ashamed, and to forbeare this filthie
noueltie, so basely grounded, so foolishly rcceiucd and so grosscly mistaken
in the right use thereof? In your abuse thereof sinning against God,
harming your seines both in persons and goods, and raking also thereby
the markes and notes of vanitie upon you: by the custome thereof making
yoxir selues to be wondered at by all forraine ciuil Nations, and by all
strangers that come among you, to be scorned and contemned. A custome
lothsome to the eye, hatefull to the Nose, harmefuli to the braine,
dangerous to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof, necrcst
resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomclesse.
"O8EPH HALL
(1574-1656)
JOSEPH HALL was born at Ashby-
dc-ki-Xouch in 1574. His mother
was a Puritan, and lie accordingly
was educated at the newly-founded
Puritan college, Emmanuel College,
Cambridge. His academic career
was a most distinguished one; he
graduated BA. in 1593, M.A. in
1596, B.D. in 1603, and D.D, in
1 6x2. He was elected to a fellow-
ship in 1595. lie took holy orders
about 1600, and became incum-
bent of llalsted, Suffolk, in the
following year, Henry, Prince of
Wales, appointed him his chaplain
in 1608, and in the same year he
became incumbent of Waltham,
Essex. In Church matters he was
mildly in sympathy with the mod-
crate Puritans, hut in politics he
showed himself in his later days a
resolute monarchist. His attitude
to Church and State made him
disliked by the extremists of both
sides, but he was well liked by
King James and King Charles.
lie became Dean of Worcester in
1616, Bishop of Exeter in 1627,
and Bishop of Norwich in 1641.
He suffered severely during the
io6
JOSEPH HALL
Great Rebellion, He was im-
prisoned, his revenues were seques-
trated, his cathedral was desecrated
and wrecked, and he was expelled
from his palace in a brutal manner,
He ended his long life at lligham,
bearing all his misfortunes with
true Christian humility.
Hall began his career as a brilliant
young don, and ended it as a vener-
able prelate; not unnaturally the
works of his youth dilTcr consider-
ably from those of his old age. The
difference is, however, even greater
than might have been expected.
His earlier works are pure Klixa-
bcthan, his later works might
belong to the end, not the middle,
of the seventeenth century. When
a young man of twenty-three he
lashed the age, as young men are
wont to do, in a collection of
satires which lie named Vir^'dc mi-
arum. This collection was in, two
parts, one of " toothless " and one
of " biting " satires. His claims to
be the first English satirist were
instantly contested by Marston,
and have been justly contested by
many writers since; but he appears
to have been the first to follow
Juvenal as a model instead of
Horace. His satires are more
vigorous than polished; a good
deal of their fame no doubt is due
to the light which they throw on
the manners and customs of their
time rather than to their purely
literary merits. The curious satire
on the Roman Catholics, Mnndus
Alley ct hfem, need .scarcely be
mentioned here, as it: is in Latin,
and is not known, with certainty to
be Hall's work. I Sis (lltaracters of
Virtues and Vices (ifioS) is aii
important pioneer prose work, be-
ing the earliest book of character
sketches in English to be modelled
on the (Characters of Thcophrastus.
As might be expected, the Vices
are more eutcrluimng than the
Virtues. These (!h(mwtm, though
they do not bear obvious (races of
it, are said to have been written
with a view to introducing them
into sermons, Hall's devotional
works include A (lentttry of Medi-
tfttionsj (hwlt'MfifdtfonSt and ser-
mons. In these works he avoids
the besetting theological win of
crabbed ness, but falls somewhat
into the opposite fault of verbosity,
His controversial works, iu which
he crossed swords oucc or twice
with Milton, arc not important to
the literary historian, to whom the
poems of 'his youth count; for more
than all the tractates of his riper
years,
[(!. Lewis, IJJv ()/>r/>// Mill.]
Satires
A gentle squire would gladly entertain
Into his house some trcncher-chappelain;
Some willing man that might instruct his sons,
And that would stand to good conditions.
First, that lie lie upon the trucklc-bcd,
Whiles his young master Heth o'er his head.
Second, that he do, on no default,
Ever presume to sit above the salt,
JOSEPH HALL 107
Third, that he never change his trencher twice.
Fourth, that he me all common courtesies;
Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait.
Last, that he never his young master heat,
But he must ask his mother to define,
How many jerks she -would his breech should line.
All these observed, lie could contented he,
To give live marks and winter livery.
(Bk. II, Sat. VI.)
What boots it, Pontlee, though thou couldst discourse
Of a long golden line of ancestors?
Or show their painted faces gaily drcst,
From ever since before the last conquest?
Or tedious bead-rolls of descended blood,
From father Jnphet since Deucalion's flood?
Or call some old church windows to record
The age of thy fair arms;
Or find some figures half obliterate
In rain-beat marble near to the church gate
Upon a cross-lcgg'd tomb: what boots it thee
To show the rusted buckle that did tie
The gaiter of thy greatest gnuulsire's knee?
What to reserve their relics many years,
Their silver spurs, or spils of broken spears?
Or cite old eland's verse, how they did wield
The wars in Turwin, or in Turney field?
And if thou canst in picking straws engage
la one half day thy father's heritage;
Or hide whatever treasures he thec got,
hi sonic deep cock-pit, or in desp'rate lot
Upon ;i six-square piece of ivory,
Throw both thyself and thy posterity?
Or if ((> shame!) in hired harlot's bed
Thy wealthy heirdom thou have buried:
Then, Ponlicc, little boots thec to discourse
(If a long golden, line of ancestors.
Ventrous Fortunio his farm hath sold,
And gads to Guianc land to fish for gold
Meeting, perhaps, if Orcnoquc deny,
Some straggling pinnace of Polonian rye:
Then comes home floating with a silken sail,
That Severn shakcth with his cannon peal;
Wiser Rayznundus, in his closet pent,
JOSEPH HALL
Laughs at such danger and advcnturcmcnt,
When half his lands arc spent in golden smoke,
And now his second hopeful glass is broke.
But yet if hap'ly his third furnace hold,
Devotcth all his pots and pans to gold:
So spend thou, Ponlicc, if thou canst not spare,
Like some stout seaman or philosopher.
And were thy fathers gentle? that's their praise;
No thank to thce by whom their name decays;
By virtue got they it, and valorous deed;
Do thou so, Ponticc, and be honoured.
But else, look how their virtue was their own,
Not capable of propagation.
Right so their titles been, nor can be thine,
Whose ill deserts might blank their golden line.
Tell me, thou gentle Trojun, (lost thou prixc
Thy brute beasts' worth by their dam's qualities?
Sayst thou this colt shall prove a swift-paeM steed
Only because a Jennet did him breed?
Or sayst thou this same horse ahull, win, a prize,
Because his dam was swiftest Truuchefitx,
Or Runcevall his sire? himself a Galloway?
Whiles like a tireJing jade he lags 1ml I -way.
Or whiles thou scest some of thy stallion race,
Their eyes bor'd out, masking the miller's nmo,
Like to a Scythian slave sworn to the pail,
Or dragging frothy barrels at his tail?
Albc wise nature in her providence,
Wont in the want of reason and of sense,
Traduce the native virtue with the kind,
Making all brute and senseless things iueliuM
Unto their cause, or place where they were sown;
That one is like to all, and all like one.
Was never fox but wily cubs begets;
The hour his fierceness to his brood besets:
Nor fearful hare falls out of lion's seed,
Nor eagle wont the tender dove to breed.
Crete ever wont the cypress sad to bear,
Acheron banks the palish popelar:
The palm cloth rifely rise in Jury field,
And Alphcus waters nought but olives wild.
Asopus breeds big bulrushes alone,
Meander, heath: peaches by Nilus grown,
An English wolf, an Irish toad to see,
JOSEPH HALL
109
Were as a chaste man nurs'd in Italy.
And now when nature gives another guide
To humankind that in his bosom bides,
Above instinct his reason and discourse,
His being better, is his life the worse?
Ah me! how seldom see we sons succeed
Their father's praise, in prowess and great deed?
Yet ccrtes if the sire be ill inclin'd,
His faults befall his sons by course of kind.
Scaurus was covetous, his son not so;
But not his pared nail will he forego.
Plorian the sire did women love a-life,
And so his son doth too, all but his wife.
Brag of thy father's faults, they are thine own:
Brag of his lands if those be not foregone.
Brag of thine own good deeds, for they are thine,
More than his life, or lands, or golden line.
(Bk. IV, Sat. 777.)
THOMAS DELONEY
(?i543-? 2600
VERY little is known about the life
of Thomas Dcloncy. lie appears
to have belonged to a French Pro-
testant family, and to have been a
silk-weaver for many years before
winning fame as a ballad-maker.
The date of his birth is merely
conjectural; his death can be fixed
with more accuracy, and took place
about 1600. His literary career
seems to have begun about^^,
and the three novels to which he
owes his present-day fame were
written in the last few years of his
life. He probably worked at Nor-
wich when he was a silk-weaver;
but followed the trade of journalism
in London. In 1596 a ballad on the
scarcity of corn caused some trouble
with the authorities. That is al-
most all that is known of Dcloney's
life.
His three novels wet Jack ofNew-
bcry (1597), dealing with weavers;
The Gentle Craft (two parts, 1597
and 1598), dealing with shoemakers;
and Thomas of Reading (?iS99),
dealing with clothiers. These
novels are all of the same kind;
romance and realism rub shoulders
together in them. When Deloney
tells humorous and realistic tales
in his own way, he is excellent;
but when he is euphuistic, as
fashion compelled him to be at
times, he is as tedious as any of
his contemporaries. He painted in
an amusing style the humours of
citizen life. He owed much to the
old jest-books; in fact in some of
no
THOMAS DELONEY
his chapters he has merely fitted
some standard jokes into a frame-
work. He also owed much to con-
temporary drama, which taught
him the value of a comic under-
plot. In one passage he echoes the
words of FalstaiT. As a ballad-
writer his free scope was hampered
by his having to fit his words to
street tunes; but sometimes he is
vigorous and fresh in his ballads
too. The novels contain some
charming songs, written with a
light touch. In the simple and
direct prose of his novels he has
left us an excellent picture of his
times. His novels were widely
popular, in the strict sense of that
word, in their day. They were for
a while neglected and "forgotten,
and it is not so very long since they
were rediscovered.' Their literary
value is considerable; but they arc
chiefly valuable for the pictures
they give us unobtainable else-
where of Elizabethan citizens, and
of craftsmen who lived in days long
before anyone, even in a nightmare,
had foreseen the Industrial Revo-
lution.
f [P- O. Mann, The Works of
Thomas J)c/ottey.]
From "The Pleasant History of Thomas
of Reading"
How Thomas of Reading wax 'murdered at his Uo$$ home of
Cokbrookc, who aha had murdered many before htm, and how
their wickedness was at length revealed.- -Chap. XL
Thomas of Reading having many occasions to come to London, as
well about his own affairs, as also the King's business, being in a great
office under his Majesty, it chanced on a time, that his Host and Hostess
of Colebrookc, who through eovctousness had murdered many of the
guests, and having every time he came thither great store of his money
to lay up, appointed him to be the next fat pig that should be killed;
For it is to be understood, that when they plotted the murder of any man,
this was always their term, the man to his wife, and the woman to her
husband: wife, there is now a fat pig to be had, if you want one.
Whereupon she would answer thus, 1 pray you put him in the hoiwty
to-morrow. "
This was, when any man came thither alone without others in his
company, and they saw lie had great store of money.
This man should be then laid in the chamber right over the kitchen,
which was a fair chamber, and better set out than any other in the house:
the best bedstead therein, though it were little and low, yet: was it most
cunningly carved, and fair to the eye, the feet whereof were fast nailed
to the chamber floor in such sort, that it could not in any wise fall, the
bed that lay therein was fast sewed to the sides of the bedstead: Moreover,
that part of the chamber whereupon this bed and bedstead stood, wast
THOMAS DELONEY
made in such sort, that by the pulling out of two iron pins below in the
kitchen, it was to be let down and taken up by a drawbridge, or in manner
of a trap door: moreover in the kitchen, directly under the place where
this should fall, was a mighty great caldron, wherein they used to seethe
their liquor when they went to brewing. Now, the men appointed for
the slaughter, were laid into this bed, and in the dead time of the night,
when they were sound asleep, by plucking out the foresaid iron pins,
down would the man fall out of his bed into the boiling caldron, and
all the clothes that were upon him: where being suddenly scalded and
drowned, he was never able to cry or speak one word.
Then had they a little ladder ever standing ready in the kitchen,
by the which they presently mounted into the said chamber, and there
closely took away the man's apparel, as also his money, in his male or
capcase: and then lifting up the said falling floor which hung by hinges,
they made it fast as before.
The dead body would they take presently out of the caldron and throw
it down the river, which ran near unto their house, whereby they escaped
all clanger.
Now it" in the morning any of the rest of the guests that had talked
with the murdered man over eve, chanced to ask for him, as having
occasion to ride the same way that he should have done, the goodman
would answer, that he took horse a good while before day, and that he
himself did set him forward: the horse the goodman would also take
out of the stable, and convey him by a hay-barn of his, that stood from
his house n mile or two, whereof himself did always keep the keys full
charily, ami when any hay was to be brought from thence, with his own
hands he would deliver it; then before the horse should go from thence,
he would dismark him: as if he wore a long tail, he would make him
curtal; or else crop his ears, or cut his mane, or put out one of his eyes;
and by this means he kept himself unknown.
Now Thomas of Reading, as I said before, being marked, and kept
for a fat pig, he was laid in the same chamber of death, but by reason
Gray of Gloucester chanced also to come that night, he escaped
scalding.
The next time he came, he was laid there again, but before he fell
asleep, or was warm in his bed, one came riding through the town and
cried piteously that London was all on a fire, and that it had burned
down Thomas Beckct's house in West cheape, and a great number more
in the same street, and yet (quoth he) the fire is not quenched.
Which tidings when Thomas of Reading heard, he was very sorrowful,
for of the same Becket that day he had received a great piece of money,
and had left in his house many of his writings, and some that appertained
to the King also: therefore there was no nay but he would ride back
again to London presently, to see how Ac matter stood; thereupon making
JI2 THOMAS DELONEY
himself ready, departed. This cross fortune caused his host to frown,
nevertheless the next time (qd. he) will pay for all.
Notwithstanding God so wrought, that they were prevented then
likewise, by reason of a great fray that happened in the house betwixt
a couple that fell out at dice, insomuch as the murderers themselves
were enforced to call him up, being a man in great authority, that he
might set the house in quietness, out of the which by means of this
quarrel, they doubted to lose many things.
Another time when he should have been laid in the same place he
fell so sick, that he requested to have some body to watch with him,
whereby also they could not bring their vile purpose to pass. But hard
It is to escape the ill fortunes whercunto a man is allotted: for albeit
that the next time that he came to London, his horse stumbled and broke
one of his legs as he should ride homeward, yet hired he another to hasten
his own death; for there is no remedy but he should go to Colebrooke
that night: but by the way he was heavy asleep, that he could scant
keep himself in the saddle; and when he came near unto the town,
his nose burst out suddenly ableeding.
Well, to his Inn he came, and so heavy was his heart that he could
eat no meat: his host and hostess hearing he was so melancholy, came
up to cheer him, saying, "Jesus, Master Cole, what ails you to-night?
never did we see you thus sad before: will it please you to have a quart
of burnt sack?'*
"With a good will " (quoth he) u and would to (Joel Tom Dove
were here, he would surely make me merry, and we should lack no music:
but I am sorry for the man with all my heart, that he is come so far
behind hand: but alas, so much can every man say, hut what good doth
it him? No, no, it is not words can help a man in this case, the man had
need of other relief than so. Let me see: I have but one child in the
world and that is my daughter, and half that I have is hers, the other half
my wife's. What then? shall I be good to nobody but them? Iti conscience,
rny wealth is too much for a couple to possess, and what is our religion
without charity? And to whom is charity more to be shown, than to
decayed householders?
" Good my host lend me a pen and ink, and some paper, for I will
write a letter unto the poor man straight; and something I will give him:
That alms which a man bestows with Ids own hands, he shall be sure to
have delivered, and God knows how long I shall live."
With that, his hostess disscmblingly answered, saying: "Doubt not,
Master Cole, you arc like enough by the course of nature to live many
years. J>
" God knows " (quoth he) " I never found my heart so heavy before/*
By this time pen, ink, and paper was brought, setting himself in
writing as followeth.
THOMAS DELONEY 113
In the name of God, Amen, I bequeath my soul to God, and my body
to the ground, my goods equally between my wife Elenor, and Isabel,
my daughter. Item I give to Thomas Dove of Exeter one hundred pounds,
nay that is too little, I give to Thomas Dove two hundred pounds in
money, to be paid unto him presently upon his demand thereof by my
said wife and daughter.
" Ila, how say you host " (qd. he) " is not this well? I pray you read
it."
His host, looking thereon, said, "Why Master Cole, what have you
written here? you said you would write a letter, but methinks you have
made a Will, what need have you to clo thus? thanks be to God, you
may live many fair years."
" Tis true " (quoth Cole) "if it please God, and I trust this writing
cannot shorten my clays, but let me see, have I made a Will? Now, I
promise you, I did verily purpose to write a letter: notwithstanding,
I have written that that God put into my mind: but look once again my
host, is it not written there, that Dove shall have two hundred pounds,
to be paid when he comes to demand it?"
"Yes indeed " (said his host).
"Well then, all is well " (said Cole) "and it shall go as it is for me.
I will not bestow the new writing thereof any more."
Then folding it up, he sealed it, desiring that his host would send
it to Exeter: he promised that he would, notwithstanding Cole was
not satisfied; but after some pause, he would needs hire one to carry it.
And so sitting down sadly in his chair again, upon a sudden he burst
forth awceping; they demanding the cause thereof, he spake as followeth:
" No cause of these fears I know: but it comes now into my mind "
(said Cole) "when I set toward this my last journey to London, how
my daughter took on, what a coil she kept to have me stay: and I could
not be rid of the little baggage a long time, she did so hang about me,
when her mother by violence took her away, she cried out most mainly,
' my father, my father, I shall never see him again.' "
"Alas, pretty soul " (said his hostess) "this was but mere kindness
in the girl, and it sccmcth she is very fond of you. But alas, why should
you grieve at this? you must consider that it was but childishness."
"Ay, it is indeed " (said Cole) and with that he began to nod.
Then they asked him if he would go to bed.
"No " (said he) "although I am heavy, I have no mind to go to
bed at all."
With that certain musicians of the town came to the chamber, and
knowing Master Cole was there, drew out their instruments, and very
solemnly began to play.
"This music comes very well " (said Cole) and when he had listened
a while thereunto, he said, "Methinks these instruments sound like
Vol.. It. 32
u 4 THOMAS DELONEY
the ring of S. Mary Overies bells, but the bass drowns all the rest: and
in my car it goes like a bell that rings a forenoon's knell, for God's sake
let them leave off, and bear them this simple reward."
The musicians being gone, his host asked if now it would please him
to go to bed; "for" (quoth he) "it is well-near eleven of the clock."
With that Cole beholding his host and hostess earnestly, began to
start back, saying, "What ails you to look so like pale death? good Lord,
what have you done, that your hands are thus bloody?"
"What, my hands " (said his host)? "Why, you may see they are
neither bloody nor foul: either your eyes do greatly dazzle, or else
fancies of a troubled mind do delude you."
"Alas my host, you may see " (said he) "how weak my wits are, I
never had my head so idle before. Come, let me drink once more, and
then I will to bed, and trouble you no longer."
With that he made himself unready, and his hostess was very diligent
to warm a kerchief, and put it about his head.
"Good Lord " (said he) "1 am not sick, I praise (Joel, but such an
alteration I find in myself as 1 never did before."
With that the screech-owl cried pitcously, and anon after the night
raven sat croaking hard by his window,
"Jesu have mercy upon me " (quoth he) "what an ill-favoured cry
do yonder carrion birds make," and therewithal he laid him down in
his bed, from whence he never rose again.
His host and hostess, that all this while noted his troubled mind,
began to commune betwixt themselves thereof. And the man said, lie
knew not what were best to be done. "By my consent " (quoth he)
"the matter should pass, for I think it is not best: to meddle on him."
"What man " (quoth she) "faint you now? have you done so many
and do you shrink at this?" Then showing him a great deal of gold which
Cole had left with her, she said, "Would it not grieve a body's heart
to lose this? hang the old churl, what should he do living any longer?
he hath too much, and we have too little: tut, husband, let the thing be
done, and then this is our own."
Her wicked counsel was followed, and when they had listened at;
his chamber door, they heard the man sound asleep: "All is safe"
(quoth they) and down into the kitchen they go, their servants being
all in bed, and pulling out the iron pins, clown fell the bed, and the man
dropped out into the boiling caldron. He being dead, they betwixt them
cast his body into the river, his clothes they made away, and made all
things as it should be.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
(1564-1616)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE was bap-
tized at Stratford-on-Avon on 26th
April, 1564. The traditional date
of the 23rd April has been assigned
to his birthday because three days
was a customary interval between
birth and baptism. The 23rd April,
moreover, was certainly the date of
Shakespeare's death, as well as the
day sacred to England's patron
saint. Shakespeare was born at a
house in Henley Street which is
still standing. John Shakespeare,
the poet's father, came to Stratford
from Snitterfield about 1551. He
was a glover, a dealer in corn and
timber, and probably also a butcher.
In 1557 he had married Mary Arden
of Wilmcote, who owned a small
estate known as Asbies, as well as
having an interest in two messuages
at Snitterfield. Shakespeare was
the third child of the marriage, but
his two elder sisters died in infancy.
It is almost certain that Shakespeare
was educated at the free grammar-
school at Stratford. There has been
much difference of opinion about
the exact amount of education he
received; but there is every reason
to believe that Ben Jonson's famous
phrase about " small Latine, and
lesse Greeke " was a purely relative
expression. There is little doubt
that without being a finished scholar,
or anything of a close student,
Shakespeare had read many of the
ordinary Latin authors, of whom
Ovid was his favourite. During
Shakespeare's boyhood the pros-
perity of his father declined con-
siderably. His fortunes had reached
their zenith in 1568, when he was
high-bailiff of Stratford. As far as
this wave of adversity can be dated,
it would seem to have begun when
the poet was about fourteen. It
is probable that Shakespeare was
taken away from school earlier than
he would have been had his father's
affairs continued to prosper. It is
uncertain how he spent the next
few years. One doubtful tradition
asserts that he was a schoolmaster
in the country (if so his education
must have been above, or certainly
not below, the average); another,
equally doubtful, says that he was
bound apprentice to a butcher.
The legal knowledge shown in
some of the plays may easily be
accounted for by the facts that
John Shakespeare was litigious,
that Shakespeare found himself
more than once in the hands of the
law, and that members of the Inns
of Court associated freely with
actors and playwrights. It is not
impossible that Shakespeare be-
came an actor when much younger
than twenty- one (the age usually
given); he may have played
women's parts as a boy, and have
been driven back to Stratford in
1582 by an outbreak of plague in
London.
In November, 1582, Shakespeare
married Anne Hathaway, who was
eight years his senior. The eldest
child, Susanna, was baptized on
2,6th May, 1583. On 2nd February,
1585, Shakespeare's twins, Hamnet
and Judith, were baptized. Late in
1585 Shakespeare left Stratford for
London. The immediate cause of
his leaving, according to his first
WILL I AM SHAKESPEARE
biographer, Rowc (1709), was that
he "fell into ill-company, and was
caught deer-stealing in the park of
Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlcotc,
who prosecuted him. Shakespeare
retaliated with a ballad, and Lucy
in anger hounded him out of War-
wickshire. Fourteen years after-
wards Shakespeare still felt sorest
the treatment he had received, for
he went out of his way to ridicule
Lucy in The Merry Wives.
It is not known how Shake-
speare's connexion with the stage
began. A doubtful, tradition says
that he at first held the horses of
playgoers during the performances.
He had seen touring companies of
actors at Stratford on several occa-
sions; moreover, acting had all the
charm of a new professionin this
respect resembling cinema-acting
in the early twentieth century --and
held out alluring prospects of speedy
success. We do not know bow
good an actor Shakespeare was, but
tradition credits him with having
played Adam in As You Like //, the
Ghost in Hamlet, and Old Knowell
in Jonson's livery Man in his
Humour, so that lie would appear
to have specialized in taking old
men's parts. He soon began to
refurbish old plays, and gradually
was led on from minor to major
alterations, and so to original work.
By 1593 be was important enough
to be attacked by the dying pro-
digal Robert Greene (q,v.), in his
Groatsworth of Wit, and to be
apologized to by Greene's executor,
Henry Chcttle, in his Kind-Harfs
Dream. Greene's hostility was more
bitter than that which is felt towards
a mere rival; it was the hostility
which every writer feels towards
those who revise, even if they im-
prove, his work. In 1593 Shake-
speare dedicated Venus and Adonis
to the Karl of Southampton, and in.
the next year dedicated the com-
panion poem Litcrcce to the same
patron.
On nth August, 1596, Shake-
speare's only son, Ilamnet, was
buried. On 2Qth October of the
same year a draft; grant of arms was
given to John Shakespeare; a
second draft: was given, in 1599,
On 4th 'May, 1597, Shakespeare
bought New Place at Stratford for
//)0. In [598 Shakespeare was
enthusiastically praised by Francis
Mercs in his Pallmlis Tamia, where
twelve of the plays are enumerated,
a priceless boon to Shakespearean
chronologists. In i5<)<) the Globe
Theatre was built on, Baukside,
and Shakespeare was made a part-
ner in Burbugcls company, John
Shakespeare died in, September,
1601, In May of the following
year Shakespeare, who was now
exceedingly prosperous, bought 107
acres of land in Old Stratford, for
the large sum, as it; was then, of
320, in 1605 he bought for 440
the thirty-two years' term, of the
moiety of the lease of Stratford
tithes. On 5th June, 1607, Susanna
Shakespeare was married to John
Hall, a prosperous physician of
Stratford. Their only child, Klixa-
beth, was baptized onaist February,
1608; Shakespeare's mother died
the following September.
At some unknown elate, possibly
about i6r,t, Shakespeare retired
from London to Stratford. In 1613
be bought: for ^140 a bouse and
ground near Blaekfriars Theatre,
London. On 2()tb June, 16x3, the
Globe Theatre was burnt down
during a performance of Henry
VIII, ''and it is probable that many
of Shakespeare's manuscripts were
SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHPLACE, STRATFORD-ON-AVON
10
BACK VIEW AND GARDEN OF THE HOUSE SHOWN ABOVE
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
117
destroyed. On loth February,
1616, Judith Shakespeare was
married to Thomas Quiney, a
vintner of Stratford. Shakespeare's
health began to fail about this time;
he executed his will on 25th March,
1616, and died at New Place on
23rd April. His will was proved
by his son-in-law, John Hall, on
22nd June. Anne Shakespeare died
on 6th August, 1623.
THE POEMS
Venus and Adonis (1593) and
Lucrece (1594) may be considered
together, as they are companion
pieces, both dedicated to the third
Earl of Southampton. There is
rather a superior air about both
poems; Venus and Adonis bears
the Ovidian motto villa miretur
viilgus, &c.; perhaps some of the
villa may have been stage-plays.
Shakespeare also speaks of this
poem as a the first heir of my in-
vention ", so he evidently regarded
it as his first legitimate child, the
dramas in which others collabo-
rated being of doubtful paternity.
Neither of these miniature epics is
an entire success. It is clear that
in both cases Shakespeare chose
the subject; the subject did not
choose him, though it has been
suggested by someone with an
atrophied sense of humour that,
when writing Venus and Adonis,
Shakespeare drew upon his recol-
lections of his own courtship. Both
poems are written in easy flowing
verse, and both have vivid touches
in them, and excellent descriptions
of nature. The earlier poem is the
livelier and more spontaneous of
the two, but the later is more
mature and is metrically superior.
Lucrece, however, protests too
much; she tears a passion to rags;
there is more feeling in the brief
ejaculations or even in the silences
of Shakespeare's mature characters.
The year 1593 was a year of plague,
so that the theatres were closed
and Shakespeare was idle. To this
rather than to inspiration the two
poems owe their origin. They both,
however, display a combination of
elaborate art and steady determina-
tion to succeed, and provide a good
argument against those critics who
declare that Shakespeare dashed off
his plays in a hasty and perfunctory
manner.
A Lover's Complaint is attributed
to Shakespeare solely because it
was included in the first edition of
the Sonnets (1609). It is almost
certainly not his work, being every-
thing good and everything bad that
is implied by the word "pretty".
The Passionate Pilgrim was pub-
lished by William Jaggard in 1599.
It was a piratical venture, contain-
ing two of Shakespeare's sonnets,
three poems out of Love's Labour's
Lost) four poems on the subject of
Venus and Adonis, and miscel-
laneous songs by men like Barnfield
and Griffin. It is of interest as
showing that Shakespeare's name
had in 1599 some commercial value
on a title page.
The Phoenix and the Turtle was
printed in Robert Chester's Love's
Martyr: or Rosalin's Complaint in
1 60 r. It is a fine-sounding poem,
and probably once had a meaning;
but it is unintelligible now. That,
perhaps, does not matter, as the
poem is "of a transcendental
kind ".
The Sonnets are the most beau-
tiful and most important of Shake-
speare's poems, but they present
the thorniect problems in Shake-
WILLIAM; SHAKKSPKARK
speareau crticism. They were
published piratically in 1609 hy
one Thomas Thorpe, who dedi-
cated them " to the onlic begetter
of these insuing sonnets, Mr. W.
H.'\ Thorpe bears out the truth
of the ancient legal maxim that;
" pirata cst host is h umani generis",
so dark a riddle has he bequeathed
us. The principal problems of the
Sonnets are the identities of Mr.
W. H., of the youth to whom many
of the sonnets are addressed, of the
dark lady mentioned in many of
the poems, and of the rival poet
mentioned in a few. But the
master-problem which lies behind
all these is " 3 low far are the
Sonnets autobiographical? ". The
answers to these questions are
many and various. Sir Sidney Lee
identified Mr. W. 1L with one
William Hall, n publisher who
played the part of pirate-lieutenant
to Thorpe's pirate-king, but who
was in no way connected with
Shakespeare, Other theories iden-
tify him with Henry Wriothealey,
third Earl of Southampton; with
William Herbert, third Karl of
Pembroke; and with a boy-actor,
William Hughes. This last theory
was suggested by Tyrwbitt, and
supported in characteristic fashion
by Oscar Wilde. Hughes still
remains, however, as nebulous a
person as Mrs. Harris. It is quite
possible that the youth and Mr.
W. H. are not one and the same;
in which case it is likely enough
that the youth is the third Earl of
Southampton, to whom Venus and
Adonis and Lucrcce were addressed,
and who was, as far as we know,
Shakespeare's only patron, The
dark lady has been identified with
innumerable real and allegorical
persons; a fairly good case has
been made out for identifying the
rival poet; with Chapman. Much
perverted ingenuity lias been ex-
pended upon (he interpretation of
the tionticts; allcgorists have thrown
all restraint to the winds; the
amateur detectives of literature
have followed up false trails in-
numerable. The problem of the
tionncts, however, exercises upon
the public mind the same fascination
as the Man in the .Iron Mask or
The Mystery of Kdwin Dnwtf. It
is extremely likely that, in the
absence of further material evi-
dence, the problem will never be
solved. It is very probable that
j * '
the autobiographical clement: in
the *SW/r/,v is either very small or
so much transmuted from reality
as to be of no value, Jf it be the
case that "the truest poetry is
the most feigning J \ it is possible
that: the characters in the tfwuiefs
are fictitious characters; lay-figures
which have come alive, quickened
by the same mind that gave life
to crude chronicle- histories and
revenge -plays. There is, at any
rate, no doubt that the sonnets
differ greatly in poetic value, some
being supreme poetry and others
mere literary exercises; and it is
quite permissible to think that the
Sonnets are a disconnected scries
of short poems in u more or less
amorous vein, and that Shake-
speare did not unlock his heart
when composing them, If he did,
" the less Shakespeare he ", not
because the heart, lie displays is
unworthy of him, but; because the
action of unlocking the heart is
quite xuvShakespearean. Some
critics, however, still believe that
in these poems Shakespeare
" cleansed the stuiFtl bosom of
that perilous stuff which weighs
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
119
upon the heart ", and that the
purgation which Aristotle tells us
that tragedies should effect in
the audience was effected in the
Sonnets for their author.
THE PLAYS
Shakespeare's plays were written
to amuse; they were intended as
shows, but are usually examined
under the microscope. A bird's-
eye view of the thirty-seven plays
may, therefore, be of some value
as a corrective to over-elaborate
study of some half-dozen of the
most celebrated of them. The
discovery of the approximate order
in which Shakespeare wrote his
plays is perhaps the greatest con-
tribution of the nineteenth century
to Shakespearean scholarship. It
is possible now to trace the growth
of his mind and art. He developed
much as an ordinary man does,
and it is no more derogatory to his
genius to say so than it is blasphe-
mous to maintain that the universe
was not created by a single act.
Titus Andronicus (1588) is almost
certainly not by Shakespeare, though
his name has kept alive interest
in this dull and detestable melo-
drama of blood. It was ascribed
to him by Meres in 1598, and
included in the 1623 Folio by
Heminge and Condell. On the
strength of these facts it is hard to
deny that Shakespeare had a hand
in it, but its author was probably
Peele, who stood almost alone in
producing work which he himself
knew to be bad, in the hope that
the audience would not find it out.
The play is obviously the work of
a novice, who had yet to learn that
lopped limbs and human pies do
not constitute a tragedy.
King Henry VI, Part I (1590-
1591) stands rather apart from
Parts II and III of King Henry VL
It deals with the war in France,
not with the Civil War, and con-
tains much tentative writing. Great
liberties are taken with history. It
may be in the main the work of
Greene and Peele, with scenes by
Shakespeare, but not revised by
him as a whole. Its presence in the
Folio does not decide the question
of Shakespeare's authorship, as the
three parts of the play would
naturally hang together. It may
have been Shakespeare's .revision
of Greene's share in this play which
called forth Greene's dying curse.
It is a relief to know that the odious
scenes in which Joan of Arc is
travestied are without doubt not by
Shakespeare.
Love's Labours Lost (1590) is
a Lylyesque and highly amusing
comedy of dialogue. No other
Shakespearean play is so much
"of an age ", so little " for all
time ". There are signs that it was
written for a private performance
before a small audience composed
of the smart set; Shakespeare at
this point of his career " to party
gave up what was meant for man-
kind ". The commercial drama
the " public means " of which he
complained improved his work.
This is, however, the first play
which contains anything of Shake-
speare's personality. In it he has
been prodigal of his genius. The
pun is the intellectual wild oats of
men who are unusually gifted;
those who play with words when
young are lords of language in
their riper years. Affectation of
one sort or another gives rise to
most of the fun in this play, which
is a plea against shaping our lives
ISO
WILLIAM SllAKHSPKARI!
by narrow mlcs and artificial sys-
tems. The king and his friends,
who tried to be philosophers, but
found cheerfulness always breaking
in, arc excellent comic characters,
The Comedy of Errors (iS<)0 is
a skilfully constructed farce based
upon the Mrnacchmi of Plautus.
One scene (Act Hi, Scene i) \vas
suggested by Plautus's Awp/u'Inio.
iC was typical of Shakespeare's
rapidly ripening genius to have
discovered that "our sincercst
laughter with sonic pain is fraught; ";
he added a serious background to
the play, and made it look forward
to Pericles ) (lymheline, The Winter's
Tale, and The Tempest in its story
of lost relations Hading each other.
There is also a more or less serious
study of jealousy, It is a good act-
ing play, though, like the u book "
of an opera, somewhat hard to
follow in reading. It is remarkable
among the early plays for the
rapidity of its exposition and its
action.
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
+'
(1592) is a kind of overture to the
great series of romantic comedies.
In many ways it is inferior to L<we*s
Labours Lost and The. Comcdv of
m "
Errors, but it is greater in promise,
and in promise of Shakespeare's
own type of comedy, It is badly
constructed, slow in its exposi-
tion, and conventional in its ending.
Its characters are symmetrically
grouped, like the nieces and uncles
in Mr, Pull's tragedy of The
Spanish Armada. But real genius
is shown in the drawing of the
characters, especially in those of
Launcc and the Host. There are
three ingredients which go to make
up a playdialogue, plot, and
characterization and at first Shake-
speare concentrated on one to the
detriment of the others.
Labour's Lwt excels in dialogue,
The (Jmncdy of Errors iu plot /ami
The Two (Jen tie men in character-
i/ation. In his next comedy Shake-
speare excelled in all three, though
undoubtedly helped by the dream-
like nature of his subject.
M*
A Midsnmnwr- Night's Dream
(i5<)3 1594) is l he consummation
of the early comedies. It was
probably written to be performed
privately, The different 1 1 treads of
the plot are most cunningly inter-
woven, This play is closely con-
nected with Romeo tind Juliet,
which represents love in its tragic
aspect, as A hlhhnmmer~Night' > s
Dream represents it in its fantastic
aspect. Moreover, the plot of
l*yr<iMM and Tliislw bears no small
resemblance to the plot of Romeo
and jfnlieL It is probable that
Shakespeare was putting his soul
into these two plays while engaged
in the more or less dull task of
refurbishing the three parts of
Kitig I ferny 17.
A7//# Jtcwy 17, A/r/.v // find 111
( I S9 t ""*5 ( )) are usually considered
to he only in part the work of
Shakespeare. The Second Part is
u recast of an older play y The Wrst
Part of the (Contention, and the
Third "Part a recast of The True
Tnwedie of Richard. Duke of Yorkc.
* * * #"
It is usually believed that all these
plays are the work of u committee
of which Marlowe, (ireene, Shake-
speare, and Peelo xvere members.
The problem of the authorship of
any given passive is insoluble, and,
like the plays themselves, of secon-
dary importance. It in certain that
there was collaboration or redaction
in A7//# Henry 17, but it; is impos-
sible to distinguish between Shake-
speare writing like Marlowe, Greene
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
121
writing like Marlowe, and Marlowe
writing like himself, and so with
all the collaborators.
King Richard III (1593), though
the most Marlowesque of all the
plays of Shakespeare, is probably
Shakespeare's unaided work his
first historical play written without
collaboration. It is a melodramatic
play which stops at nothing to
attain its effects. In Marlowe's
fashion it has a dominating: prot-
agonist, and an opening soliloquy.
Richard III was immensely popular;
Burbage made his reputation in
this play, which from an actor's
point of view is a one-man play.
Romeo and Juliet (1591, perhaps
revised 1596) is the tragic master-
piece of Shakespeare's first period.
Two of its most noticeable features
are that it has no underplot, the
story moving unimpeded upon its
course, and that it is filled with
splendid poetry. Hitherto the
poet and the dramatist in Shake-
speare had worked turn about
rather than collaborated; in this
play they are fast allies.
King Richard II (1594) might
be called anti-Marlowesque in its
style. Shakespeare has definitely
broken away from his discipleship
to Marlowe, and is writing in his
own style a play on a subject akin
to that of Edward II. There is a
lyrical element in this play which
links it closely with Romeo and
Juliet. Richard II, a king of shreds
and purple patches, is splendidly
drawn. There is a lack of comic
scenes, and prose is avoided.
King John (1595) is the greatest
example of adaptation in the works
of Shakespeare. It is not altogether
an attractive play, but it lets us see
into Shakespeare's workshop more
than any other play. It is based
upon an old play, The Troublesome
Raigne of John, King of England,
of which it retains much, while
elevating much into poetry. It
does not adhere closely to the facts
of history. The Bastard is a great
figure, and points the way to the
cycle of histories that are founded
upon humour and heroism.
The Merchant of Venice (1596) is
an extremely popular play which
combines several different stories
into one harmonious whole. So
graphically has this been done that
some critics forget that the play is
a romantic and extravagant play,
and that the Venice which it repre-
sents lies, not in Italy, but East of
the Sun and West of the Moon. It
is a mistake to regard Shylock as a
tragic figure.
King Henry IV ", Parts I and II
(1597-1598) may be regarded as
one play in ten acts. In this play
the chronicle turns into the comedy
of manners. This cycle of plays
the Lancastrian trilogy is the most
genial of all the Shakespearean
cycles. From the dramatic point of
view these plays are without form
and void, but as comedies of manners
they are unmatched and unmatch-
able. Falstaff " doth bestride the
narrow world like a Colossus ",
and is the greatest comic creation
in ancient or modern literature.
King Henry V (1599) is the last
of the historical plays, properly so
called. Its qualities are those of an
epic rather than those of a play.
Its dramatic interest is slender,
but it contains some splendid
pieces of patriotic writing. A
temporary loss of self-confidence
is perhaps to be seen in the apolo-
getic prologues.
The Taming of the Shrew (1597)
is an adaptation of an earlier play,
132
WILLIAM SIlMvHSPKARE
The Taming of A Shrew (published
1594). The later pky is the statu-
tory five acts. The authorship of
A Shrew is one of the most inter-
esting of Shakespearean problems,
interesting though (perhaps be-
cause) insoluble, It has been
assigned to every near and impor-
tant predecessor of Shakespeare
save Lyly and Nash. Shakespeare's
play has been said to delineate the
tragedy which occurs when a manly
spirit is born into a woman's body;
but " Twere to consider too curi-
ously to consider so ". The play
is just a lively farce, the off-hand
sketch of a mature artist whose
serious energies were concentrated
on greater tasks.
The Merry Wives of Windsor
(1598) was, according to a fairly-
well established tradition, written
in fourteen days in obedience to a
command of Queen Elizabeth, who
wished to sec FalstalT in love-
Even Shakespeare could not write
his best when writing to order, and
Falstaff in love was a contradiction
in terms. The play, however, is a
bright, mirthful comedy, and is
excellently constructed, being much
better than Henry IV in this respect-
It was almost certainly performed
at Windsor, and probably on 8t
George's (Garter) day. Falstalf
was transplanted into Elizabethan
times, nor does he bear a much
closer resemblance to his namesake
in Henry IV than Iludibras does to
Don Quixote. The Merry Wives
has about it a pleasant air of spon-
taneity and " unpremeditated art "
Owing to its impromptu nature, it
lets us see into Shakespeare's mind,
because " out of the abundance of
the heart the mouth speakcth 3> .
Much Ado about Nothing (1598)
is a great but unequal play. The
underplot, which is delightful
comedy, has swallowed up the
main plot, which is unpleasant
melodrama, so that the play is not
quite satisfactory.
yj.v You Like 1 1 (1599) was based
on Lodge's prose tale, Kosalymh\
Kuphuea (toldcu Lcgacic, published
nine years earlier. It is full of the
spirit of romance; and the dainty
wit; of Touchstone, the wisest fool
in Shakespearcdom, illuminates the
whole play. Even in this play, how-
ever, there are signs that Shake-
speare has turned his wit the seamy
side without. There is much
cynicism in the play, which quite
definitely satirises pastoralism on
occasion. The ending is purely
conventional; every comedy must
end with a bout of marriages, just
as every tragedy must: end with a
series of deaths. According to our
ideas, Horace's rule, u nee dens
intcrsit nisi digmus vmdice nodus",
applies to Hymen and the knots
which he tics no less lluux to other
deities and the knots which they
loose.
Twelfth Night (1600) is the acme
of Shakespearean comedy. It lias
all that is most mirthful and
exquisite in Muck Ado and As You
Like It, with something of -added
mirth and grace. To treat Malvolio
as an almost tragic personage is an
absurd mistake made by some
actors,
Julius Crrsar (1601) is the first of
the Roman plays based on Plutarch,,
the human est though not the most
accurate of biographers. it is
probable that Shakespeare spent
an unusual amount of time on this
play. The language and thought
are exquisitely clear, and are more
evenly balanced than in any other
play.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
123
Hamlet (1602) is perhaps the
most popular of the plays. It has
been classed, with Julius C&sar, as
a tragedy of reflection, but to the
Elizabethan playgoer of 1602 it
probably appeared to be a good
brisk melodrama with plenty of
sensation in it. It is undoubtedly
based upon an old revenge-tragedy,
probably the work of Kyd. There
are some minor inconsistencies in
the play, due in part to the survival
of some features of the old play,
and in part to the drastic but in-
complete revision which Shake-
speare gave to his first draft. The
heart of Hamlet's mystery can be
almost if not quite plucked out;
some of the difficulties which tor-
mented commentators of a bygone
generation were due to their not
realizing that in a revenge-play
there was a certain tacit under-
standing between author and
audience, just as there is to-day
between the author of a detective
story and his readers.
All's Well that ends Well (?i6oi)
is a curious play with an uncertain
literary history. Parts of it are
immature, both in style and metre,
and parts of it are certainly Shake-
speare's mature work. It is perhaps
a recast of an earlier play, which
many critics identify with Love's
Labour's Won, mentioned by Meres
in 1598. The uncertain touch with
which the character of the heroine
is drawn is a sign of early work or
patchwork. The blending of styles
makes this play unique.
Measure for Measure (1603) is
that mixture of dramatic and un-
pleasant qualities which is usually
known as a " strong " play. It is
very much less tragic than its
source. Shakespeare's magic has
given reality to a romantically
improbable story. The conven-
tional ending would not seem out
of place in a conventional play, in
a play in which " they do but jest,
poison in jest "; but Shakespeare
in this play propounds a problem
of absorbing interest, and shirks
giving a satisfactory solution of it.
Troilus and Cressida (?i6o3) is
the most obscure of Shakespeare's
plays, and leaves a confused effect
upon its readers. Though weak as
a play, it is strong as a satire; it
may be doubted if it was ever a
money-making play. It is ambigu-
ous even in its position in the
Folio, where it occupies a kind of
limbo between the histories and
the tragedies, and is not mentioned
in the " catalogue " or table of
contents. It is the only play of the
thirty-seven which is filled with
bitterness and the crackling of
thorns under a pot. Truth, love,
heroism, wisdom, chastity what-
soever things are lovely and of
good report are the subjects of
gibes and mockery. And now
tragedy follows tragedy.
Othello (1604) is at once the
most painful and the most perfect
of all the plays, and is the most
tremendous effort of Shakespeare
as a dramatist. In construction it
is as perfect as a play of Sopho-
cles. There is no underplot.
Coleridge contrasted this play fav-
ourably with Hamlet and Lear,
where, he said, there was some-
thing gigantic and unformed; in
Othello " everything assumes its
due place and proportion, and the
whole mature powers of his mind
are displayed in admirable equi-
librium ".
King Lear (1605) is the m ost
titanic of all the plays, and is the
most tremendous effort of Shake-
124
WILLIAM SHAKKSPKARK
spearc as a poet. It combines
rapidity with length, and has the
lire and sublimity of the best work
of /Eschylus. It is too vast a sub-
ject for the stage, and gives the
impression of being out of time
and space. In this play we see the
first signs of that lack of verbal and
metrical restraint which is so not-
able in the latest plays. The lan-
guage cannot always support the
weight of the thought.
Macbeth (1606) is, unfortunately,
only preserved in an Imperfect
state. It was written to please
James, hence the subject was taken
from Scottish history, and hence
the allusions to dcmonology, upon
which the king had written a book,
and to the healing of scrofula by
means of the royal touch. It is
possible that the priming-knife was
unskilfully applied to Mttcbcth to
make it more suitable for perfor-
mance at court. One of the most
remarkable features of this play is
its extreme rapidity. It moves
swiftly and relentlessly to its denoue-
ment.
Antony and Cleopatra (,1607) is
a play of kaleidoscopic variety, it;
is slightly defective in construction,
and lacks an absorbing centre of
interest. It was perhaps rather
hastily written, and has the excel-
lences and defects of rapid work.
Cleopatra is the greatest of Shake-
speare's women, and the most
complete psychological study in
all the plays.
Conolamis (1608) is a somewhat
austere play, with little of the lyric
manner in it, and containing a
good deal of rather difficult writ-
ing, not unlike that of Browning,
Many gifts have gone to its making,
but not the supreme gift of love.
Coriolanus is much less tragic than
its immediate predecessors, as when
the hero dies lie loses his life but
saves his soul. This is significant
as marking the cud of the tragic
period.
Titnon of Athens (Pifioy 1608) is
a pn/xling and chaotic play. Tarts
of ; it are in, Shakespeare's most
majestic style, and parts of it; seem
to he the work of an unskilful
journeyman; but the dilliculty of
separating the wheat from the
tares is greater in, this than in, any
other play. .It has been suggested
that this play was completed not
for acting, but for inclusion in the
1623 Folio. .It may preserve much
of Shakespeare's preliminary draft.
Pericles (1608) is the overture to
the series of four romances with
which Shakespeare ended his career
as dramatist. Before writing these
plays his mind was born, again.
Like "the wretch that long has
tost on the thorny bed of pain ",
The meanest floweret of the vale
The simplest; note that swells the
gale,
Phe common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
In these plays Shakespeare harked
hack to the reunion of parted kins-
folk, a subject; he had clealt with in
the serious underplot of The (loniedv
of Errors, The first two acts of
Pericles are worthless, and are the
work of some very inferior play-
wright, possibly George Willdns.
This is the partnership of Alpha
and Omega, the first and the last;
and there is no stronger evidence
of the small value which Shake-
speare set on his work,
The Winters Tale (1:610) is based
upon Greene's novel Pandoslo
(named Doras tus and l<\iwnia in its
later editions). Autolycus is Shake-
T
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
125
speare's own invention, and one of
the most agreeable of all rogues.
In the story of the wooing of
Florizel and Perdita, the shep-
herdess who is really a princess,
Shakespeare dealt with a situation
common in Menander and the
New Comedy, but treated it in
his own pure and delicate way.
The statue-scene at the end of the
play is immensely effective on the
stage.
Cymbeline (1610) is somewhat
complicated and difficult to follow,
but it contains the beautiful figure
of Imogen ? the sweetest woman
ever created by God or man. This
character and some magnificent
poetry help to make amends for a
certain lack of probability in this
play, which treads close on the
heels of the greatest of the plays.
The Tempest (1611) is the greatest
of the four romances, and is the
last song of the f< sweet swan of
Avon ". In this play Shakespeare
" called the New World into exis-
tence to redress the balance of the
Old ". Music and magic and poetry
meet in it and make it the Master's
masterpiece. Its technique is
perfect. It obeys the laws of unity
of time and of unity of place. It
has solved the problem of how to
represent a reconciliation twelve
years having elapsed since the
estrangement upon the stage. It
is impossible to refrain from identi-
fying Prospero with Shakespeare
himself. Prospero the magician is
a man who has complete mastery
over himself. His magic chiefly
consists in this, Heminge and
Condell showed much wisdom in
putting this play first in the Folio,
to attract the hesitating purchaser.
Henry VIII (1612) is actually the
last play to which Shakespeare
contributed a share, though The
Tempest is his last great work and
contains his farewell to the stage.
Roughly a third of the play is by
Shakespeare; the rest is by Fletcher.
Some critics see the hand of Mas-
singer in certain parts. This play
depends for its success more upon
pageantry and declamation than
upon plot and poetry. It may
perhaps contain some old material,
laid aside by Shakespeare years
before and made over to Fletcher
when Shakespeare retired to Strat-
ford.
To attempt in a few words to
appreciate the genius of Shakespeare
is as difficult as it is to " hold in-
finity in the palm of your hand ".
Nevertheless, certain salient features
of the man may be briefly set down.
The greatest of all his manifold
gifts was his large-minded impar-
tiality his god-like tolerance,
which enabled him to sympathize
with human nature in all its shapes,
degrees, depressions, and eleva-
tions. Another of his great gifts
was that he had, especially in his
mature plays, the happy knack of
pleasing both himself and his
audience with his work. He did
not, like Fletcher, pander to the
groundlings; nor did he, like
Jonson, attempt to bully them into
liking what was above their heads.
Simply by the alchemy of his
genius he could turn the base lead
of crude farces, tedious chronicle-
histories, and ranting tragedies of
revenge into the pure gold of his
sunny comedies, his masterly his-
torical plays, and his majestic
tragedies. He was born at a fortu-
nate time. Marlowe, one of the
greatest of literary pioneers, had
made straight the paths for him.
126
WILLIAM 8IIAKESPEAUK
He began his career as a junior
doing alterations only; when he
had completed his great series of
historical plays, he was a past-
master of dramatic writing. The
composition of his histories was
probably the best education that
he could have had; had he not
worked at these plays he might
have been a kind of superior
Fletcher in comedy, and but
slightly better than Webster in
tragedy. As it was, he went on
from strength to strength, writing
masterpieces of romantic comedy
and tragedies of all kinds, ending
finally with his romances, in which
he seems to look down as from a
height upon all the doings of man-
kind.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTK.- -Seven-
teen of Shakespeare's plays (in-
cluding Pericles) were printed in
quarto between 1:597 and 1622.
Four of the plays published in,
quarto are obviously pirated (Romeo
and J illicit Hairy V, Merry Wiws,
and Hamlet), and it is not likely
that Shakespeare authorized, though
he may have connived at, the
publication of any of them. In
1623 appeared the first collected
edition of Shakespeare's plays,
usually known as the First Folio.
It was set forth by John Ilerninge
and Henry Condcll, Shakespeare's
fellow-actors. It contains thirty-
six plays (all the canonical plays
except Pericles), twenty of which
appeared in print for the first
time. Over one hundred and
eighty copies of the First Folio
survive, but only fourteen arc in
a quite perfect state. The Second
Folio (1632) is a reprint of the
First, and makes a few alterations,
many of which arc for the worse.
The Third Folio (1663 and ,1664)
is mainly u reprint of the Second;
the 1664 impression contains Pm-
c/cs anil six paeiiclo-Sliakespearcan
plays. The Fourth, Folio (1685) is
a reprint; of the 1664 impression of
(he Third.
Drytlen was one of the best as
he was one of the earliest Shake-
spearean critics. The first, critical
editor was the Poet: Laureate
Nicholas Rowc, who in his edition
of 1709 corrected some of the most
palpable errors, and gathered to-
gether some fads and legends
about Shakespeare's life. \Pope
(1725), and Theobald (1733) made
some happy and some unnecessary
emendations- Haunter ((,74.},) did
not contribute much, to Shake-
spearean scholarship, nor did War-
burton, who reissued Pope's edition
with many notes of his own in
1747. I)r, Johnson's edition (1765)
is chiefly famous for its preface,
an embodiment; of sound common
sense, Capell's edition (1,768) is
the work of a thorough but not:
superficially attractive scholar.
Steevens, who reissued Johnson's
edition in 1773, was Clever but
unstable; JVIalonc, his rival (1790),
was a sound antiquarian. Variorum
editions embodying the work of
Johnson, Steevens, and Malone
appeared under the editorship of
Reed in 1803 and 1813, and under
the editorship of James Boswcll
(the younger) in 1821, In the early
part of the nineteenth century a
new era in Shakespearean criticism
was opened up by Coleridge,
Sehlegel, Ilasclitt, and Lamb. Cole-
ridge, though not the most reliable,
is perhaps the most inspired of
Shakespearean critics. His tradi-
tion was carried on at a later date
by Swinburne, who is an excellent
i
THE TRAGEDIE Of
H A M L E T, Prince of Dcnmarke.
r
c. fclm- Trimus. Scocna
i
two ( 'fntinc/t.
Jo's there i
. Nay anfvvcr me : Stand
ttxr. He.
Ff.vt, You i omcmoft: csrefulk vpoii vour hourc,
jRttr.' fi* n.v,v ftrook rvveluc.get thcc to bed irMcifi-o.
Frwtt Foi this rdectc much ilJSLikei; Tisbiuct cold.
J
And T 3*11 lu'kc ,;c -' t.
Wr. i laise ; 'Vi hail quiet Guard ?
FMW r "JoriMoi fecund;].
"B^'-i, Well, v'OoJ,i,i''iu. if you; do meet f7or>it(e and
" ," ^i i j "
.'Iftir>etiiu 3 the ll, in 1 ' of my Wai'.h,bul them make tuft.
jKrvcs. I tii' i'-r i iicaic :bcni. Stand ; who'i there ?
/'i>*\ :*ncn!* f,o dm ground.
,1 Air. And LciLjc-nun to the Dane,
/',M. Cjinc you good nif;lic,
7>L(. O farwcl honcft Soldier, who hatii rclteu'd you?
JV-*, 'Sttrfwdi h;i't my place: giueyou i;oodni^hc.
'3'4r, Say/.'vhat n//rvi^ there "
/fijr. A pccn* of him.
*J?.r. \V elcomc UMJtia, welcome good
j!', . I haue Icene nothinr;.
And will no: !cr bclccfc take hold ofhim
Toiithnin thsii drcndcvl light, twice fecnc of \s t
"Thcr( tu'C 1 luue irtrcate.'l him along
IVkh vs, tow.itclulrminiic.s of this Night,
Thar. f.'.jainc this Apparition come,
1 !cmy fipprouc oir ryes, and Ipcukc to it.
/fiT, T.jfi^tufl ,\ will not appeare*
/M;", Sit do\vi., a. while,
And Icr. v! onccatjnincnfTaiic your caret,
That arc fu rurtificd c g.iinft our Story,
".Vh.ic we two Nighti !uuc fecnc*
liar IVc'd.fu we downe,
And let T.I hcarc V?(frr;^'ii? fp cake of this.
VAtj'n. L,\ft night of all,
When y end fame Starrc that'* Wcftward from the Pole
Ma J ma tic his coaric tMlume that past ot'Hcaucu
\VIiere now u burnei , MuriellMt and my fclfc
The Dell then bcatij/.'-oiif. '
cn/"<r. Pc3cc,lv-'akr thcc of , n tn f A,
Lonke where it cor ej, againc.
Sam. In the fame figure, like the Kin ( ; that's dead
'^, jr . Thou 05 1 a Scholln; Ij.rakctoir ///,/..
. Loolccsu not like the Knif;? Marked ItorMio
>.r. Moftlikc h Juurovx-uiK \vitl>fear^ womlc'r
ft would '
liMM. it would be jpoKc too.
ll.r. WlucarciSvju that vlurp'rtiltK time of nirtlir
Aether with diaiFaire and Wnildcr forme * '
To
, In which the Maielly of buried De ,.
Did lomrt lines nnrrh , 15 y Hcaucn 1
* f b i m" _ . *
/>' trrr, Src,u ilolkri nway.
//. Stay Ji'rahcjlpeikc;! Charge thec/pralfc.
t --' - .. v y i WUff ( k
yt/.tr. Tis ^onejtind willnoranfvvcr.
jj4r How now //w.rrw ? You ticmble fc ?ook pale
h nut tins fomeclunij more then Fantaf.e ?
What tlnnkc you cn'ti 1
^Wr. Bctorc my God, I might not thisbclecuc
Without the fcufiblc and trucV.ur>uch
Ofminco'A'nccyei.
M>tr. Isttnotlikctl,eKin{? 1
Har f As tliou art to ih;' fclrc,
S^ch w.Til e vc.y A*'niou, Ivhud on
\\ hen t!i'Amh;nous Xorvvcv combatied:
So frown'd he once, whet^jn an anqry panic
He Iniot thtllcddtd I J ollax on the Ue.
'fit (Iranfje.
jVrf/ 1 . Tbusc wire bcfore,nnd iuftat this dead hourc
\Vith Mjrcisil Iblkc, hsth he gone by our Watch. '
//r.[n what particular thought to work,! know not :
B.it in the groife and icope of my Opinion,
Th bottles feme ttrange crruption to our State.
Mxr* Good now lit doyvnc^ tell me he that knowcs
Why thii fame ftruft and mo ft obleru.int Watch
Somghrly toylesthc fubicilof the Land, *
And why fuchdaylyCaft of Biazon Cannon
And Forraigne Marc for Implements ofwarrc;
Why fuch imprefle of Ship-wrights, whole fore T^ske
Do'i not diuidc the Sunday from the wctkc .
Whir might be toward, ihat this fwcatyhaA
Doth nuke the Nijjhcjoynt-Ubourcr with the day :
Whois'tthaicaninforDjcmc? .
At ;
THE FIRST PAGE OF THE FIRST FOLIO (162^ OK
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
127
critic, though sometimes most em-
phatic where his case is weakest.
The editions of Singer, Collier,
Knight, IlalHweH, Dyce, and
Stauuton all contribute something
to our knowledge of Shakespeare.
The Cambridge edition of Clark
and Wright presents a sound text,
but: its critical apparatus resembles
an unweeded garden. A new
Variorum edition was undertaken
by II. Howard Furncss of Phila-
delphia, who edited fifteen plays
between iSyt and his death in
191:2; his son is carrying on the
task. Each volume of this edition
is u library in itself. Other editions
arc too numerous to mention, but
the following may be singled out
as important: DowJcn, Craig, and
Case, The Anlcn Shakespeare (1899-
1918), and Sir Arthur Quiiler-
Couch and J. J). Wilson, The New
Shakes/ware (begun in 1921),
Those who read to eontn
and confute will perhaps endeavour
to make themselves masters of a
section or two of the vast library
which has gathered round Shake-
speare and his works. A small
selection will satisfy those whom
studies serve for delight. The
ordinary reader will find almost all
the help he requires in the follow-
ing books: Sir Sidney Lee, A Life
of William Shakespeare (the stan-
dard biography); F. J. Furmvall
and J. Munro, Shakespeare: Life
and Work; Dr. Johnson, Essays
and Notes on Shakespeare (edited
by Sir W. Raleigh); S. T. Cole-
ridge, Notes and Lectures on Shake-
sfyeare; W. Hazlitt, Characters of
Shakespeare 9 s Plays; E. Dowclen,
Shakspcre: a Critical Study of his
Mind and Art; A Shakspere Primer;
Introduction to Shakespeare] Sir
Walter Raleigh, Shakespeare (Eng-
lish Men of Letters Series); A. C.
Bradley, Shakespearean Tragedy;
Oxford Lectures on Poetry; A. C.
Swinburne, A Study of Shake-
speare; J. Churton Collins, Studies
in Shakespeare; B. Wendell, Wil-
liam Shakespeare: a Study in
Elizabethan Literature; G. Brandes,
William Shakespeare; G. P. Baker,
The Development of Shakespeare as
a Dramatist; D. H. Madden, The
Diary of Master William Silence;
Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch, Shake-
speare's Workmanship; various con-
tributors, Shakespeare 9 s England;
Sir E. K. Chambers, William
Shakespeare, a Study of Facts and
Problems; Shakespeare: a Survey;
J. Bartlett, Concordance to Shake-
speare; R, J. Cunliffe, A New
Shakespearean Dictionary; E. A.
Abbott, A Shakesperian Grammar,
From "Venus and Adonis"
This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that cats up Love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine car
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:
And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
WILLIAM HIIAIvRSlMiARIi
Under whose sharp fangs on life hack doth lie
An intake like thyself, all stain M with gore;
Whose 1)lo()d upon the fresh llowers being sited
Doth make them droop \vith grief and Imng the head*
'What should 1 do, seeing thee so indeed,
That tremhle at the imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth touch it: divination;
1 prophesy thy death, my living sorrow.
If thou encounter with the hoar to-morrow,
But if thou needs wilt hunt, he ruled, hy me;
Uncouple at; the timorous Hying hare,
Or at the fox which, lives hy subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures oVr the downs,
And on thy well-breath \l horse keep with thy hounds,
And when thou hast; on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
I low he outruns the wind and with what '"ire
lie cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musets through the which he goes
Arc like <t labyrinth to amaze his foes.
Sometime he runs among a Hock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving comes keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:
For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot sceut-snufllng hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Kcho replies,
As if another chase were in the skies,
By this, poor Wat, far oif upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still;
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 129
And now his grief may be -compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never relieved by any.
(Lines 655-708.)
From "Lucrece"
O Opportunity, thy guilt is great!
'Tis thou that executest the traitor's treason:
Thou sett'st the wolf where he the lamb may get;
Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point 'st the season;
'Tis thou that spurn 'st at right, at law, at reason;
And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,
Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.
Thou makest the vestal violate her oath;
Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd;
Thou smother J st honesty, thou murder 'st troth;
Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd!
Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud:
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!
Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,
Thy private feasting to a public fast,
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,
Thy sugar 'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste:
Thy violent vanities can never last.
How comes it then, vile Opportunity,
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?
When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend,
And bring him where his suit may be obtained?
When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end?
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain 'd?
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd?
The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;
But they ne'er meet with Opportunity.
IL 33
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The patient, dies while the physician sleeps;
The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds;
Justice Is feasting while the widow weeps;
Advice Is sporting while infection breeds;
Thou grant's!; no time for charitable deeds:
Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages,
Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.
When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid:
They buy thy help; but Sin ne'er gives a fee,
lie gratis comes; and them art well appaid
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
My Colhuinc would else have eome to me
When Tarquin did, but he was stay VI by thee.
(Lines 876
Sonnets
XVIII
Shall 1 compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short n date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmVl;
And every fair from fair sometime declines.
By chance or nature's changing course untrinmiVI;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thoxi owcst;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander J st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growcst:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee
XXIX
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone bcweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess VI,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember 'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
XXX
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish J d sight;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o 'er
The sad account of fore -bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
LXV
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
0, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
WILLIAM. SI IAKKSPKAR E
LXXIII
That time of year thou mnyst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hung
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruinM choirs, where late the sweet birds sa
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset faclcth in the west.
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou scc'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish M by,
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
XCV1II
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress 'd in all his trim
I lath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh U and leaped with him,
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet; smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion In the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight.
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those,
Yet secmtt it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play:
XCIX
The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 133
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robbery had annex 'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.
CXVI
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove :
O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved .
CXXIX
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy 'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow 'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so ;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell .
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Titania's Lullaby
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lullu, lullaby:
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no o Hence.
Philomel, with melody, etc.
Balthazar's Song
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never:
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Iley nanny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no moc,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy:
Then sigh not so, etc.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Feste's Song
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man 's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
Ariel's Songs
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have and kiss M
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear,
Burthen (dispersedly). Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.
The watch -dogs bark:
Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
: K S 'X? : K< vr
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes :
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea- nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Burthen. Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them, Ding-dong, bell.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Love's Labour's Lost
BlRON
Learning is but an adjunct to out-self
And where we arc our learning likewise is:
Then when ourselves we sec In ladies' eyes,
Do we not likewise sec our learning there?
O, we have made a vow to study, lords,
And in that vow we have forsworn, our books.
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,
In leaden contemplation have found out
Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes
Of beauty's tutors have enrich M you with?
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain;
And therefore, finding barren practiscrs,
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil:
But love, first learned in a lady's eyes,
Lives not alone immured in the brain;
But, with the motion of all elements,
Courses as swift as thought in every power,
And gives to every power a double power,
Above their functions and their olliccs.
It adds a precious seeing to the eye;
A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind;
A lover's car will hear the lowest sound,
When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd:
Love's feeling is more soft and sensible
Than are the tender horns of cockled snails;
Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste;
For valour, is not Love a Hercules,
Still climbing trees in the llcspendes?
Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical
As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair;
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
JL " VH*
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write
Until his ink were temper 'd with Love's sighs;
0, then his lines would ravish savage ears
And plant in tyrants mild humility.
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean lire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,
That show, contain and nourish all the world:
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 137
Else none at all in aught proves excellent.
Then fools you were these women to forswear,
Or keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.
For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love,
Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men,
Or for men's sake, the authors of these women,
Or women's sake, by whom we men are men,
Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,
Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.
It is religion to be thus forsworn,
For chanty itself fulfils the law,
And who can sever love from charity?
(Act IV, Sc. 3, lines 314-365.)
A Midsummer-Night's Dream
(Enter TITANIA and BOTTOM; PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH,
MUSTARDSEED, and other Fairies attending ; OBERON behind unseen.}
TITANIA
Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.
BOTTOM
Where's Peaseblossom?
PEASEBLOSSOM
Ready.
BOTTOM
Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where's Mounsieur Cobweb?
COBWEB
Ready.
BOTTOM
Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your
.nd, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and
3d mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much
the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-
i 3 8 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag,
signior. Where's Mounsicur Must aniseed?
MUSTAHDSKED
Ready.
BOTTOM
Give me your ncaf, Mounsicur Mustardseecl, Pray you, leave your
courtesy, good moimsieur,
MUSTAUIXSKKD
What's your will?
BOTTOM
Nothing, good mounsicur, but to help Cuvalcry Cobweb to scratch,
I must to the barber's, mounsicur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy
about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me,
I must scratch.
TITANIA
What, wilt them hear some music, my sweet love?
BOTTOM
I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let's have the tongs and the
bones.
TITANIA
Or say, sweet love, what thou dcsircst to cat,
BOTTOM
Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your good dry oats. Me-
thinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay; good hay, sweet hay, hath
no fellow.
TITANIA
I have a venturous fairy that shall seek
The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thce new nuts.
BOTTOM
I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you,
let none of your people stir me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon
me.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 139
TlTANIA
Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. [Exeunt fairies.
(Act IV, Sc. i, lines 1-44.)
Romeo and Juliet
<h/
ROMEO
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O, how may I
Call this a lightning? O, my love! my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.
Tybalt, licst thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee;
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; 0, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love! [Drinks.] true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. [Dies.
(Act V, Sc. 3, lines 88-120.)
wi LLI AM SHAKESPEARE:
The Merchant of Venice
Belmont. Avenue to Portia's house.
(Enter LORENZO and JESSICA.)
LORENZO
The moon shines bright: in such a niglxt as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noisse, in. such a night
Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls
And sigli'd his soul toward the Grecian touts,
Where Crcssid lay that night.
JESSICA
In such a night
Did Thisbc fearfully o'ertrip the dew
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself
And ran dismay 'd away.
LORENZO
In such a night:
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sen banks and waft; her love
To come again to Carthage.
JESSICA
In such a night
Medea gather 'cl the enchanted herbs
That did renew old Aeson.
LORENZO
In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
As far as Bclmont.
JESSICA
In such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith
And ne'er u true one.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 141
LORENZO
In such a night
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
JESSICA
I would out-night you, did no body come;
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
(Act V, Sc. i, lines 1-24.)
Second Part of King Henry IV
CHIEF-JUSTICE
You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel.
FALSTAFF
Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light; but I hope he that looks
upon me will take me without weighing: and yet, in some respects,
I grant, I cannot go: I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these
costermonger times that true valour is turned bear-herd: pregnancy is
made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all
the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them,
are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities
of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the
bitterness of your galls: and we that are in the vaward of our youth, I
must confess, are wags too.
CHIEF-JUSTICE
Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written
down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye? a
dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a decreasing leg? an in-
creasing belly? is not your voice broken? your wind short? your chin
double? your wit single? and every part about you blasted with antiquity?
and will you call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!
FALSTAFF
My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with
a white head and something a round belly. For my voice, I have lost
it with halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further,
I will not,- the truth is, I am only old in judgement and understanding;
WILLIAM SIIAKESPKARE
and lie that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me
the money, and have at him! .For the box of the ear that the prince gave
you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord.
I have checked him for it, and the young lion repents; marry, not in
ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack,
Well, God send the prince a better companion!
FALSTAFF
God send the companion a better prince! [ cannot rid my hands
of him,
(Ac I /, ,SV, 2, tines 185-226.)
"ulius Caesar
* (
BRUTUS
Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear trie for my cause, and be
silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour, and have respect
to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom,
and awake your senses, that you may the bettor judge. .If there be any
in this assembly, any dear friend of Cesar's, to him I say, that: Brutus'
love to Cajsur was no less than his. If then that friend demand why
Brutus rose against Cicsar, this is my answer; Not that I loved Caisar
less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Ciesar were living
and die all slaves, than that Ciusar were dead, to live all free men? As
Cassar loved me, 1 weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it;
as he was valiant, I honour him: but, as lie was ambitious, I slew him.
There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour;
and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bond-
man? If any, speak; for him have 1 offended. Who is here so rude that
would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who
is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, sp^ak; for him have
I offended, T pause for a reply.
ALL
None, Brutus, none.
BRUTUS
Then none have I offended, I have clone no more to Cxsar than
you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 143
Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offences
enforced, for which he suffered death.
(Enter ANTONY and others,, with Ceesar's body.)
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who, though he
had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place
in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart,
that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger
for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.
ALL
Live, Brutus! live, live.
FIRST CITIZEN
Bring him with triumph home unto his house.
SECOND CITIZEN
Give him a statue with his ancestors.
THIRD CITIZEN
Let him be Caesar.
FOURTH CITIZEN
Caesar's better parts
Shall be crown 'd in Brutus.
FIRST CITIZEN
We '11 bring him to his house
With shouts and clamours.
BRUTUS
My countrymen,
SECOND CITIZEN
Peace, silence! Brutus speaks.
FIRST CITIZEN
Peace, ho!
WILLIAM SIIAKKSPKAUK
BRUTUS
Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony:
Do grace to Ciusar's corpse, and grace his spocTh
Tending to Cxsar's glories; which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allow 'd to make.
[ do entreat yon, not u man depart,
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke,
(Ac/: ///, Mr. 2, ff/ics 12-66.)
Hamlet
1 [QRATIO
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantlcss and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets;
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse:
And even the like precurse of fierce events,
As harbingers preceding still the fates
And prologue to the omen eoming on,
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our chmatures and countrymen.
But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!
(Re-enter Ghost,)
111 cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice,
Speak to me :
If there be any good thing to be done,
That may to thcc do ease and grace to me,
Speak to me: [Cock erow$>
If thou art privy to thy country's fate,
Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid,
O, speak!
Or if thou hast uphoartled in thy life
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth,
For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death,
Speak of it; stay, and speak! Stop it, Marccllus.
IliL
fhe. Trageclie of
A
it,
Trince
J
in
flttd Fr&wifcojw Qmtf
Ho fe there?
Nu,- anf'.vcrtne.' ^tandand vafoldyotir
Long!' ' "
Hcc.
Fran m 'Yoirctfrnc me ft carefully vpon your I core
Ba ". Tis .no^ftrookc tvv clue,uct thee 10 bed F;
Fr*/w. For this reliefc much tiunk^us bitter cold
And lam fkkat heart.
\Haucyouhadquietguard?
'. Not a Moufe flirting.
, .
If y o u doc mcctc.H^r^jfa and Marcellus,
Ihcriualsof my watch ,bid th mmalcchaft*
w/^r \ioratia and Mar$e UHS*. .
I thinkc I 'hcarc ihcna.fland ho.vvhoii there?
'''
. Friends to this gTdund.
And LeegemcntofiheDanc,
, Glue you good night*
O/a'rcwcll honcftYouldiers^ho hath rclkiuJ you ?
ray place; giu.c you good nigh^ Ext
B '* V
THE I'lksr IAC;K OF TFIK FOURTH QUARTO den) OF HAMLET
This should ho compared with the same page from the First Folio (1623)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 145
MARCELLUS
Shall I strike at it with my partisan?
HORATIO
Do, if it will not stand.
BERNARDO
Tishere!
HORATIO
Tishere!
MARCELLUS
'Tis gone ! [Exit Ghost.
We do it wrong, being so majestical,
To offer it the show of violence ;
For it is, as the air, invulnerable,
And our vain blows malicious mockery.
BERNARDO
It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
HORATIO
And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
The extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine: and of the truth herein
This present object made probation.
MARCELLUS
It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season conies
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow 'd and so gracious is the time.
i. II. 34
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
HORATIO
So have I heard and do in part helievc it.
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill:
Break we our watch up; and by my advice,
Let us impart what we have seen to-night
Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life,
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,
As needful in our loves, fitting our duty?
MARCELLUS
Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know
Where we shall find him most conveniently, [Exeunt,
(Act I, Sc. T, lines
Othello
OTHELLO
Soft you; a word or two before you go,
I have done the state some service, and they kaow't.
No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this;
And say besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban *d Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him, thus, [Stabs himself.
(Act F, Sc. 2, t/ncs 338-356.)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE i
King Lear
LEAR
O, reason not the need: our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous :
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life's as cheap as beast's: thou art a lady;
If only to go warm were gorgeous,
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both!
If it be you that stir these daughters ' hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,
And let not women's weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both,
That all the world shall I will do such things,
What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep;
No, I'll not weep:
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!
(Act II, Sc. 4, lines 267-289.)
Pericles
(Enter PERICLES, on shipboard.)
PERICLES
Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges,
Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou, that hast
Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,
Having call'd them from the deep! O, still
Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench
Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida,
How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously;
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Wilt thou spit nil thyself? The seaman's whistle
Is as a whisper in the cars of death,
Unheard. Lychcmda! Lucina, O
Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle
To those that cry by night, convey thy deity
Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs
Of my qxiccn's travails!
(Enter LYCHORIDA, with an fit /tint.)
Now, Lychoricla!
LYCHORIDA
Here is a thing too young for such a place,
Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I
Am like to do: take in your arms this piece
Of your dead queen ,
PKRICLMS
How, how, Lychorida!
LycnoRiDA
Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm.
Here's all that is left living of your queen,
A little daughter: for the sake of it,
Be manly, and take comfort.
PERICLKS
you gods!
Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,
And snatch them straight away? We here below
Recall not what we give, and therein may
Use honour with you.
LYCHORIDA
Patience, good sir,
Even for this charge.
PHUCLES
Now> mild may be thy life!
For a more blustrous birth had never babe;
Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 145
Thou art the ruddiest welcome to this world
That ever was prince's child. Happy what follows!
Thou hast as chiding a nativity
As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make,
To herald thee from the womb ; even at the first
Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit,
With all thou canst find here. Now, the good gods
Throw their best eyes upon't!
(Act III, Sc. i, lines 1-37.)
The Winter's Tale
PERDITA
Now, my fair'st friend,
I would I had some flowers o* the spring that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
That wear upon your virgin branches yet
Your maidenheads growing: O Proserpina,
For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall
From Dis 's waggon ! daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno J s eyes
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack,
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er!
FLORIZEL
What, like a corse?
PERDITA
No, like a bank for love to lie and play on;
Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried,
But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flower
Methinks I play as I have seen them do
In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
PjLORlZKL
What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I 'Id have you do it ever: when you sing,
Fid have you buy and sell so, so give alms,
Pray so; and, for the ordering your alTaiis,
To sing them too: when you dance, I wish, you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing hut that; move still, still so,
And own no other function; each your doing,
So singular In each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,
That all your acts arc queens,
PERDITA
Doricles,
Your praises are too large: but that your youth,
And the true blood which pcepeth fairly through 't,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You woo'd me the false way.
FUMIXKL
I think you have
As little skill to fear as I have purpose
To put you to *t. But come; our dance, I pray:
Your hand, my Pcrdita: so turtles pair,
That never mean to part.
PERJHTA
Fll swear for 'em,
POLIXHNES
This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on. the grecn-swarci: nothing she does or seems
But smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this place.
CAMILLO
He tells her something
That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is
The queen of curds and cream.
(Act IV, Sc. 4, lines 112-161.)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 151
The Tempest
PROSPERO
(Aside) I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates
Against my life: the minute of their plot
Is almost come. (To the Spirits) Well done! avoid; no more!
FERDINAND
This is strange: your father's in some passion
That works him strongly.
MIRANDA
Never till this day
Saw I him touch 'd with anger so distemper'd.
PROSPERO
You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled:
Be not disturb 'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two 111 walk,
To still my beating mind.
FERDINAND MIRANDA
We wish your peace. [Exeunt.
(Act IV, Sc. i, lines 139-163.)
153
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA
A BODY of writings at least as large
as his genuine works has, at one
time or another, been attributed to
Shakespeare. Some of these attri-
butions have been made on the
slenderest grounds, by critics,
British and foreign, who have been
unable to distinguish between what
is Shakespearean and what is
merely Elizabethan. It will not be
necessary to mention here some
wild surmises which credit Shake-
speare with the authorship of
certain plays which would be un-
worthy even of George Wilkins.
There are, however, some fifteen
plays which have long been con-
nected in some way or other with
the name of Shakespeare; five of
these have been claimed by dis-
tinguished scholars as in whole or
in part the work of Shakespeare.
These fifteen plays arc often spoken
of as " the Slaakespeare Apoc-
rypha "; like their biblical counter-
part, they may be read for example
of (contemporary) life and instruc-
tion, of manners; but they do not
establish any doctrine about the
mind and art of Shakespeare,
Seven plays not in the First-
Folio were published as Shake-
speare's in his lifetime, and were
included in the second impression
of the Third Folio in 1664, These
seven plays are: Pericles, which
is almost universally accepted as
canonical, is always printed in
Shakespeare's collected works, and
therefore does not rank as apocry-
phal; Locrine (1595), possibly by
Kyd; Thomas, Lord Cromwell ( 1 602) ,
a very poor play; The London
Prodigal (1605); The Puritan
Widow (1607), perhaps by Middle-
ton; Sir John Oldcastle (1600)*
almost certainly by Munday, Dray-
ton, Wilson, and Jlathwaye; and
A Yorkshire Tragedy (1608), a
powerful but sordid play not in
Shakespeare's later style (twenty-
five per cent of it is rhymed), and
describing an event which hap-
pened in 1605. Of these seven
plays, if we set aside Pericles as
certainly Shakespeare's in part,
only A Yorkshire Tragedy has been
accepted as genuine by a few
competent authorities*
Three plays have been attributed
to Shakespeare merely because
they were bound together in a
volume in Charles ll's library and
labelled u Shakespeare ". These
("HI
three may be at once dismissed
as non-Shakespearean. They are:
Mttccdorus, a variegated but popular
play; that very admirable and
entertaining play The. Merry Devil
of Edmonton", and Pair #/;/, a poor
production.
Three plays were published at a
fairly early date, but some time
after Shakespeare's death, as his
work in whole or in part, They are;
The Troublesome Raignc of John,
King of England^ the old play
which Shakespeare worked up into
his King John ; The Birth of Merlin ,
published in 1662 as the work of
Shakespeare and Rowley, but prob-
ably the work of Rowley and
Dekker; and The Two Noble Kins-
men, published in 1634 as the work
of Fletcher and Shakespeare. The
Two Noble Kinsmen is by far the
most interesting play in the Apoc-
rypha; it is sometimes printed in
Shakespeare *s complete works, but
much more frequently is not. That
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA
153
this play should be excluded from
the canon, while Pericles is ad-
mitted, is due perhaps in part to
convention, in part to the extremely
difficult problem which the play
presents. It is, however, almost
certain that the attribution of the
authorship to Fletcher and Shake-
speare in the 1634 Quarto is cor-
rect. It would seem that Shake-
speare devoted his attention mainly
to the beginning and end of the
play, while Fletcher was responsible
for the middle. There is no doubt
whatever that Fletcher wrote much
of this play, but some authorities
believe that his collaborator was
Massinger, not Shakespeare.
Many plays have been attributed
to Shakespeare on internal evidence
only, because they contain excellent
work, or for some other reason.
The most important of these plays
are: Edward ///, where the Coun-
tess of Salisbury scenes are singled
out, with some probability, as
Shakespearean; Arden of Fever-
sham, published in 1592, and
obviously the work of a mature
writer, which Shakespeare was not
at that date, and of an uncom-
promising realist, which Shake-
speare never was; and Sir Thomas
More y which is of interest because
its original manuscript is preserved
in the British Museum (Harleian
MS. 7368) and is believed to con-
tain a fairly long additional passage
in Shakespeare's handwriting. This
theory was propounded in 1871, and
was for long out of favour, but is at
present supported by several eminent
palaeographers. The passage is not
strikingly but fairly Shakespearean
in thought and diction.
Only five, therefore, of the fifteen
plays enumerated here as apocryphal
are worthy of attention as contain-
ing some of Shakespeare's work or
as having been considered his work
by competent authorities. These
five are: A Yorkshire Tragedy > The
Two Noble Kinsmen, Edward ///,
Arden of Fever sham, and Sir
Thomas More. The other ten may
be summarily dismissed.
[C. F. T. Brooke, The Shake-
speare Apocrypha] A. F. Hopkin-
son, Essays on Shakespeare's Doubt-
ful Plays; J. A. Symonds, Shake-
speare's Predecessors in the English
Drama.]
Arden of Feversham Ms True and
Lamentable Tragedy
Alice Arden with Mosbie her Paramour conspire the murder of her
husband.
MOSBIE
How now, Alice, what sad and passionate?
Make me partaker of thy pensiveness;
Fire divided burns with lesser force.
ALICE
But I will dam that fire in my breast,
Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah Mosbie !
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA
MOSDIK
Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon's burst,
Discharged against a ruinated wall,
Breaks my relenting heart In thousand pieces.
Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
Thou know'st It well, and 'tis thy policy
To forge distressful looks, to wound a breast
Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad,
It Is not Love that loves to anger Love.
ALIO;
It Is not Love that loves to murder Love.
MOSBIE
How mean you that?
ALICE
Thou know'st how dearly Ardcn loved inc.
MOHIUK
And then-
And then conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried with the wind,
And publish J d in the world to both our shames.
1 pray thee, Mosbie, let our spring-time wither:
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
Forget, I pray thee, what has past betwixt us;
For I now blush and tremble at the thoughts.
MOSBIK
What, are you changed?
ALICE
Ay, to my former happy life again;
From title of an. odious strumpet's name
To honest Ardcn 's wife, not Ardea's honest wife
Ah Mosbie 1 'tis thou hast rifled me of that,
And made me slanderous to all my kin,
Ev'n in my forehead Is thy name engraven,
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA 155
A mean artificer, that low-born name!
I was bewitch 'd; woe-worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me !
MOSBIE
Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth;
And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
Let me repent the credit I have lost.
I have neglected matters of import,
That would have 'stated me above thy state;
Forslow'd advantages, and spurn 'd at time;
Ay, Fortune J s right hand Mosbie hath forsook,
To take a wanton giglot by the left.
I left the marriage of an honest maid,
Whose dowry would have weigh 'd down all thy wealth;
Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee.
This certain good I lost for changing bad,
And wrapp'd my credit in thy company.
I was bewitch 'd; that is no theme of thine:
And thou unhallow'd hast enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,
And put another sight upon these eyes,
That show'd my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair; I vie\v'd thee not till now:
Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not:
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,
Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
I am too good to be thy favourite.
ALICE
Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true,
Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth;
Which too incredulous I ne'er believed.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two;
I '11 bite niy tongue if it speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or else I'll kill myself.
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look;
If thou cry war, there is no peace for me,
I will do penance for offending thee ;
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA
And burn this prayer-book, which I here use,
The Holy Word that has converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves; and in this golden cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell,
And thereon will 1 chiefly meditate,
And hold no other sect but such devotion.
Wilt thou not look? is all thy love overwhelm M?
Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thy ears?
Why speak 'st thou not? what silence ties thy tongue?
Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is,
And heard as quickly as the fearful hare,
And spoke as smoothly as an orator,
When I have bid thcc hear, or see, or speak:
And art thou sensible in none of these?
Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie J s muddy looks,
A fence of trouble is not thicken 'd still:
Be clear again; I'll ne'er more trouble thee.
MOSUIE
fie, no; I am a base artificer;
My wings are feather 'd for a lowly flight.
Mosbic, fie, no; not for a thousand pound.
Make love to you? why, 'tis unpardonable,
We beggars must not breathe where gentles are,
ALICE
Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king,
And I too blind to judge him otherwise,
Flowers do sometimes spring in fallow lands:
Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns:
So, whatsoe'er my Mosbie 's father was,
Himself is valued gentle by his worth.
MOSBIK
Ah, how you women can insinuate,
And elear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue!
1 will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice,
Provided I'll be tempted so no more.
(Act ///, Sc. 5, lines 45-149-)
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA 15?
Sir Thomas More
(MoRE is addressing a crowd of riotous citizens)
MORE
Look, what you do offend you cry upon,
That is, the peace: not one of you here present,
Had there such fellows lived when you were babes,
That could have topt the peace, as now you would,
The peace wherein you have till now grown up
Had been ta'en from you, and the bloody times
Could not have brought you to the state of men.
Alas, poor things, what is it you have got,
Although we grant you get the thing you seek?
BETTS
Marry, the removing of the strangers, which cannot choose but much
advantage the poor handicrafts of the city.
MORE
Grant them removed, and grant that this your noise
Hath chid down all the majesty of England;
Imagine that you see the wretched strangers,
Their babies at their backs, and their poor luggage,
Plodding to the ports and coasts for transportation,
And that you sit as kings in your desires,
Authority quite silenced by your brawl,
And you in ruff of your opinions clothed;
What had you got? I'll tell you: you had taught
How insolence and strong hand should prevail,
How order should be quelled; and by this pattern
Not one of you should live an aged man,
For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought,
With self same hand, self reasons, and self right,
Would shark on you, and men like ravenous fishes
Would feed on one another.
DOLL
Before God, that's as true as the Gospel.
LINCOLN
Nay, this is a sound fellow, I tell you: let's mark him.
i 5 S THE SIIATvESPKARB APOCRYPHA
MORIS
Let me set up before your thoughts, good friends,
On supposition; which if you will mark,
You shall perceive how horrible a shape
Your innovation bears; first, 'tis a sin
Which oft th* apostle did forewarn us of,
Urging obedience to authority;
And 'twere no error, if I told you all,
You were in arms 'gainst your (Hod himself,
ALL
Marry, God forbid that!
MORI-:
Nay, certainly you are;
For to the king God hath his office lent
Of dread, of justice, power and command,
Hath bid him rule, and willed you to obey;
And, to add ampler majesty to this,
He hath not only lent the king his figure,
His throne and sword, but given, him his own name.
Calls him a god on earth. What do you, then,
Rising 'gainst him that; God himself installs,
But rise 'gainst God? what do yon to your souls
In doing this? 0, desperate as you are,
Wash your foul minds with tears, and those same hands,
That you like rebels lift against the peace,
Lift up for peace, and your unrcvcreut knees,
Make them your feet to kneel to be forgiven!
Tell me but this; what rebel captain,
As mutinies are incident, by his name
Can still the rout? who will obey a traitor?
Or how can well that proclamation sound,
When there is no addition but a rebel
To qualify a rebel? You'll put down strangers,
Kill them, cut their throats, possess their houses,
And lead the majesty of law in lym,
To slip him like a hound. Say now the king
(As he is clement, if th j offender mourn)
Should so much come too short of your great trespass
As but to banish you, whither would you go?
What country, by the nature of your error,
Should give you harbour? go you to France or Flanders,
REDUCED FACSIMILE SHOWING HAND D IN SIR THOMAS MORE
(See pages 158 and 159 for printed version)
, 7
THE SHAKESPEARE APOCRYPHA 159
To any German province, to Spain or Portugal,
Nay, any where that not adheres to England,
Why, you must needs be strangers: would you be pleased
To find a nation of such barbarous temper,
That, breaking out in hideous violence,
Would not afford you an abode on earth,
Whet their detested knives against your throats,
Spurn you like clogs, and like as if that God
Owed not nor made not you, nor that the elements
Were not all appropriate to your comforts,
But chartered unto them, what would you think
To be thus used? this is the strangers' case;
And this your Mohammetanish* inhumanity.
ALL
Faith, 'a says true: let's clo as we may be done by.
LINCOLN
Well be ruled by you, Master More, if you'll stand our friend to
procure our pardon.
MORE
Submit you to these noble gentlemen,
Entreat their mediation to the king,
Give up yourself to form, obey the magistrate,
And there's no doubt but mercy may be found,
If you so seek.
(Act II, Sc. 4, lines 85-172.)
S. momtanish.
OHN FLORID
(? 1553 -1625)
JOHN FLORID was the son of a
Florentine refugee who had been
for a time a Protestant minister,
but who was not righteous over-
much in his way of life. Florio was
born in London about 1553, and
must be classed not as an Italianate
Englishman, but as an Anglified
Italian. Some Latin verses which
arc printed below his portrait
describe him as " Italus ore, Anglus
pectore ", but it is to be doubted
whether this phrase satisfied his
lexicographical soul. He was
educated at Magdalen College,
Oxford, and was a private tutor in
modern languages at Oxford. He
was patronized by the two rival
i6o
JOHN PLOR10
claimants for the honour of having
been "Mr. W, II.", the Earl of
Southampton and the Karl, of
Pembroke, He published two
handbooks for students of Italian,
First Fruits (1578) and Second
Fruits (1591). His tfreat Italian-
English dictionary, Tlic Worhle, of
Worths , appeared in 1598, His
masterpiece, a translation of Mon-
taigne's Essays,, came out in the
year of the accession of King
James, who appointed Florio tutor
to Prince Henry and reader in
Italian to Queen Anne. lAorio died
at Fulham in 1625.
Horio's exuberant translation of
The Essaycs, or Morally Politick?,
and Militarie Discourses of Lord
Michael dc Montaigne > Knight of
Ihc Noble Order of 6Y, Michael > and
one of the Gentlemen in Ordinary
of the. French King's Chamber is
after North's Plutarch, perhaps the
most famous of Elizabethan trans-
lations. It is in every respect
worthy of its great original, though
" resolute John Florio " had not,
among his many gifts, the gift of
self-effacement so necessary for a
translator. He was something of a
pedant, and had in his composition
a spice of the oddity which Sir
Thomas Urquhtirt, the translator
of Rabelais, possessed in super-
abundance. I Hs lively if inaccurate
version of Montaigne is incom-
parably superior to the scholarly
but commonplace rendering pub-
lished by diaries Cotton of Com-
pleat Angler fame in 1685.
[Comtesse de (luimbrun, Gio-
vanni Worfa) wi /"lf)(Jlre <h la
Rctuiisstince en
Montaigne's Essays
Of the
Now (to rcturnc to my purpose) [ thxtle (as farre an I have beenc
informed) there is nothing in that nation, that; is cither barbarous or
savage, unlesse men call that barbarlsmc which is not common to them,
As indeed, we have no other aymc of truth and reason, than the example
and Idea of the opinions and customes of the countrie we live in. There
is ever perfect religion, perfect policie, perfect and comploat use of all
things. They are even savage, as we call those fruits wilde, which nature
of her sclfe, and of her ordinarie progresse hath produced: whereas
indeed, they are those which our selves have altered by our artilidall
devices, and diverted from their common order, we should rather tonne
savage. In those are the true and most profitable vcrtuea, and naturall
properties most lively and vigorous, which in these we have bastardized,
applying them to the pleasure of our corrupted taste. And if notwith-
standing, in clivers fruits of those countries that were never tilled, we
shall finde, that in respect of ours they are most excellent, and as delicate
unto our taste; there is no reason, art should game the point of
honour of our great and puissant mother Nature, We have so much
by our inventions surcharged the bcaxitics and riches of her workes,
that we have altogether overehoaked her: yet where ever her puritie
JOHN FLORIO 161
shineth, she makes our vaine and frivolous enterprises wonderfully ashamed .
Et veniunt hederae sponte sua meliu$ y
Surgit et in solis formosior arbutus antris,
Et volucres nulla dultius arte canunt.
Ivies spring better of their owne accord,
Unhanted plots much fairer trees afford.
Birds by no art much sweeter notes record.
All our endevour or wit, cannot so much as reach to represent the nest
of the least birdlet, it's contexture, beautie, profit and use, no nor the
web of a seely spider. All things (saith Plato) are produced, either by nature,
by fortune, or by art. The greatest and fairest by one or other of the two
first, the least and imperfect by the last. Those nations seeme therefore
so barbarous unto me, because they have received very little fashion
from humane wit, and are yet neere their originall naturalitie. The lawes
of nature doe yet command them, which are but little bastardized by
ours, and that with such puritie, as I am sometimes grieved the know-
ledge of it came no sooner to light, at what time there were men, that
better than we could have judged of it. I am sorie, Lycurgus and Plato
had it not: for me seemeth that what in those nations we see by experience,
doth not only exceed all the pictures wherewith licentious Poesie hath
proudly imbellished the golden age, and all her quaint inventions to
faine a happy condition of man, but also the conception and desire of
Philosophy. They could not imagine a genuitie so pure and simple, as
we see it by experience; nor ever beleeve our societie might be maintained
with so little art and humane combination. It is a nation, would I answer
Plato, that hath no kinde of traffike, no knowledge of Letters, no in-
telligence of numbers, no name of magistrate, nor of politike superioritie;
no use of service, of riches or of povertie, no contracts, no successions,
no partitions, no occupation but idle; no respect of kinred, but common,
no apparell but naturall, no manuring of lands, no use of wine, corne,
or mettle. The very words that import lying, falshood, treason, dis-
simulations, covetousnes, envie, detraction, and pardon, were never
heard of amongst them. How dissonant would hee finde his imaginarie
common-wealth from this perfection?
Hos natura modos primum dedit.
Nature at first uprise,
These manners did devise.
Furthermore, they live in a country of so exceeding pleasant and
temperate situation, that as my testimonies have told me, it is verie rare
to see a sicke body amongst them; and they have further assured me,
they never saw any man there, either shaking with the palsie, toothlesse,
with eies dropping, or crooked and stooping through age. They are
seated alongst the sea-coast, encompassed toward the land with huge
VOL ii. 35
i6a JOHN FLORIO
and steeple mountaincs, having betweenc both, a hundred leagues or
thereabout of open and ehampuine ground. They have great abundance
of fish and flesh, that have no resemblance ut all with ours, and eat them
without any sawces, or skill of Cookerie, but plaine boiled or broiled.
The first man that brought a horse thither, although he had in many
other voyages conversed with them, bred so great; ;i horror in the land,
that before they could take notice of him, they slew him with arrowes.
Their buildings are very long, and. able to contaiue two or three hundred
soules, covered with barkes of great trees, fastncd, in the ground at one
end, enterlaced and joyncd close together by the tops, after the manner
of some of our Granges; the covering whereof hangs clowuc to the ground,
and steacleth them as a flanckc. They have a kinde of wood so hard,
that ryving & cleaving the same, they make blades, swords, and grid-
irons to broile their meat with. Their beds arc of a kinde of cotton cloth,
fastnecl to the housc-roofe, as our ship-eabbancs: cveric one hath his
severall cowch; for the women lie from their husbands. They rise with
the Sunne, and feed for all clay, as soonc as they are up: and make no
more meales after that. They drinke not at meat, as Suidas reporteth
of some other people of the East, which dranke after meales, but drinke
many times a day, and are much given to pledge earowses. Their drinke
is made of a certaine root, and of the colour of our Claret wines, which
lasteth but two or three daics; they drinke it warmer It hath somewhat
a sharpe taste, wholsomc for the stomack, nothing heady, but laxative
for such as are not used unto it, yet verie pleasing to such as are accustomed
unto it. In stead of bread, they use a certaine white composition, like
unto Corianders confected. I have eaten some, the taste whereof is
somewhat sweet and wallowish. They spend the whole day in dancing-
Their young men goe a hunting after wilde beasts with bowes and arrowes.
Their women busie themselves therewhil'st with warming of their drinke,
which is their chiefest office. Some of their old men, in, the morning
before they goe to eating, preach in common to all the houshold, walking
from one end of the house to the other, repeating one sclfc-same sentence
many times, till he have ended his turne (for their buildings arc a hundred
paces in length) he commends but two things unto his auditorie, First,
valour against their enemies, then lovingnesse unto their wives. They never
misse (for their restraint) to put men in minde of this dutic, that it is
their wives which keepe their drinke luke-warme and well-seasoned. The
forme of their beds, cords, swords, blades, and wooddcn bracelets, where-
with they cover their hand wrists, when they fight, and great Canes
open at one end, by the sound of which they kcepc time and cadence
in their dancing, are in many places to be seene, and namely in mine
owne house. They are, shaven all over, much more close and cleaner
than wee are, with no other Razors than of wood or stone. They bclccve
their soules to be eternall, and those tfort have deserved well of their
JOHN FLORID 163
Gods, to be placed in that part of heaven where the Sunne riseth, and
the cursed toward the West in opposition. They have certaine Prophets
and Priests, which commonly abide in the mountaines, and very seldome
shew themselves unto the people; but when they corne downe, there
is a great feast prepared, and a solemne assembly of manie towneships
together (each Grange as I have described maketh a village, and they
are about a French league one from another.) The Prophet speakes to
the people in publike, exhorting them to embrace vertue, and follow
their dutie. All their morall discipline containeth but these two articles;
first an undismaied resolution to warre, then an inviolable affection to
their wives. Hee doth also Prognosticate of things to corne, and what
successe they shall hope for in their enterprises: hee either perswadeth
or disswadeth them, from warre; but if he chance to misse of his divination,
and that it succeed otherwise than hee foretold them, if hee be taken,
he is hewen in a thousand peeces, and condemned for a false Prophet.
And therefore he that hath once misreckoned himselfe is never scene
againe. Divination is the gift of God; the abusing whereof should be a
punishable imposture. When the Divines amongst the Scythians had
foretold an untruth, they were couched along upon hurdles full of heath
or brushwood, drawne by oxen, and so manicled hand and foot, burned
to death. Those which manage matters subject to the conduct of mans
sufficiencie, are excusable, although they shew the utmost of their skill.
But those that gull and conicatch us with the assurance of an extraordinarie
facultie, and which is beyond our knowledge, ought to be double
punished; first because they performe not the effect of their promise,
then for the rashnesse of their imposture and unadvisednesse of their
fraud. They warre against the nations, that lie beyond their rnountaines,
to which they go naked, having no other weapons than bowes, or woodden
swords, sharpe at one end, as our broaches are. It is an admirable thing
to see the constant resolution of their combats, which never end but by
effusion of bloud and murther: for they know not what feare or rowts
are. Every Victor brings home the head of the enemie he hath slaine as
a Trophey of his victorie, and fastneth the same at the entrance of his
dwelling place. After they have long time used and entreated their prisoners
well, and with all commodities they can devise, he that is the Master of
them; sommoning a great assembly of his acquaintance, tieth a corde
to one of the prisoners armes, by the end whereof he holds him fast,
with some distance from him, for feare he might offend him, and giveth
the other arme, bound in like manner, to the dearest friend he hath,
and both in the presence of all the assembly kill him with swords : which
done, they roast, and then eat him in common, and send some slices of
him to such of their friends as are absent. It is not as some imagine, to
nourish themselves with it, (as anciently the Scithians wont to doe,) but
to represent an extreme, and inexpiable revenge.
164
JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD
JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD
? 1565-1618)
Summa To tails (1607), The Holy
Rootle (1609), Willcs Pilgrimage
(1610), The Scourge of Folly (ifai) 9
and The Muse's Sacrifice (1612)!
His longer poems are verse-exer-
cises in philosophy and theology;
unlike his titled namesake, he liad
not mastered the art of reasoning
lucidly in easy verse- It has been
unkindly suggested that this fore-
runner of " Horace Nibbs the
writing-master " displayed his pen-
manship rather than his poetical
gifts in these poems* His shorter
poems Sonnets and Epigrams-
have wit, though perhaps not wit
of the highest order. His practical
manual, The Writing Schoolmaster,
or the Anatomy of Fair Writing,
was not printed until fifteen years
after his death. His works have
been edited by A. B. Grosart.
JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD, who
must not be confused with his
slightly younger contemporary Six-
John Davies (q.v.), was born at
Hereford about 1565, He was of
Welsh extraction. By profession he
was a writing-master, and pursued
his calling at Oxford, though he
does not appear to have been a
member of the university. He was
patronized by the nobility, but was
never in affluent circumstances.
Little more is known about him,
save that he was three times
married and was said to have been
a Roman Catholic. He died in the
summer of 1618.
Davies wrote a large quantity of
verse, but his writings cannot be
called great except as regards their
bulk. His works include Minim in
Modum (1602), Microcosmus (1603),
Respice Finem
Whenas I hear Time's sober Tongue (the Clock)
Call on me ev'ry hour to mind mine end,
It strikes my heart with fear at ev'ry stroke
Because so ill Time, Life, and Breath, I spend .
Then straight resolve I, to bestow them all
Upon the Lord of all, that gave them me,
When lo, the World upon me straight doth call
And bids me look to it, lest poor I be:
Twixt these two Calls I parted am in twain,
The first my Spirit, the last my Flesh attends ;
So 'twixt them two my pleasure is but pain ,
For each the other evermore offends.
Sin .tenders me all Joys, that ravish Sense,
And Sense doth pine if from Them It be held:
Grace offers Joys of much more excellence,
JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD 165
And fain my Spirit would with Them be filled.
But in frail Flesh Sense such a Caesar is
That it Commands it to withstand the Sprite,
While it doth feed the Flesh with Earthly Bliss:
And so, my Sprite is vex'd with that delight.
Thus, while I am distracted in desire
Time (in his Language after some Hours ' pause)
Tells me he flies, and bids me to retire
Before Confusion catch me in his jaws.
Time (that thus endear 5 st me to thy love)
1 constantly adore thy fickleness,
That never mov'st, but dost my Senses move
To mind thy flight, and this life's tickleness.
O that I could make thee Eternity !
And honour thee, for this, with state divine,
That with the God of Glory, thou and I
Might like the Sun and Moon, for ever shine !
Teach me, O learned long-experienc s d Time
To glorify thee with some heavenly Art,
Whose humble Muse would to thy Temples climb
To Laurel-Crown them, ere from Thee I part.
O let me be the Triton of thy praise:
Teach me to Trumpet forth thine Excellence :
Let me (though most unworthy) grace thy Days
With all that may delight Intelligence.
Let me by thee (dear Time) be brought to Death
Ere I abuse thee in the least degree:
For, he wins Bliss that doth but lose his Breath
To be still found, from Time's Abuses free.
Then now, O now (sith now my Days decline)
Let me this Moment enter in the Way
Of Vertue, Grace, and holy Discipline,
And being in, thence, let me never stray:
Procrastination doth but Plagues protract,
Due to protraction of Conversion:
The Time with Plagues my wayward Will Coact
To turn to Grace, ere my subversion.
Let it suffise that I have thee abus'd
Since I was born, in Wrongs not to be borne :
Then be thou, by me, henceforth rightly us'd,
Or let me, by Thee, die, or live forlorn:
For, I am weary now of wronging Thee,
Then let me flee from Vice as thou dost Flee.
i66
THOMAS CAMPION
THOMAS CAMPION
( 1567 - 1620 )
THOMAS CAMPION was born on
1 2th February, 1567. His father,
who died when the poet was in his
tenth year, was a prosperous mem-
ber of the Middle Temple. Cam-
pion was educated at Peterhouse,
Cambridge, but did not graduate.
In 1586 he was entered at Gray's
Inn, but was not called to the Bar.
We do not know much about his
life or his means of livelihood for
some years; it is believed on good
but not conclusive evidence that
he accompanied the Earl of Essex's
expedition to France in 1591, and
was present at the siege of Rouen.
In 1595 he published Poemata, a
volume of admirable Latin verse.
His first collection of English poems,
A Booke ofAyres, appeared in 1601.
The music of the first part of this
book was composed by Campion
himself, that of the second part by
his friend Philip Rosseter. In 1602
he published his curious pamphlet
Observations in the Art of English
Poesie, in which he maintained " the
unaptnesse of Rime in Poesie "
a strange theory to be supported by
one who was himself a masterly
rhymer. This pamphlet was cour-
teously but completely refuted by
Daniel (q.v.) in his Defence of
Ryme. Sometime before 1606
Campion took the degree of Doctor
of Medicine, almost certainly at
some continental university, and
began to practise as a physician.
In 1607 he wrote a Masque in
honour of the Lord Hay and his
bnde, and in 1613 published a
volume, Songs of Mourning, in
which he lamented the death of
Henry, Prince of Wales. In 1612
Two Bookcs of Ay res appeared. In
the following year he wrote three
masques, The Lords' Masque, Enter-
tainment to 1/ie Queen at Ctwersham
House, and Masque at the Marriage
of the Earl of Somerset. The Third
and Fourth 'Boohe of Ay res appeared
in 1617, and in the same year Cam-
pion published a technical musical
treatise, A New Way of Making
Fowre Parts in Counter-point. The
words of Ayres that were sung and
played at 'Brougham Castle (1618)
are almost certainly his work.
Campion died in 1620, having
reissued his Latin, poems with
corrections and additions in the
previous year.
The name of Thomas Campion,
poet, composer, and physician, was
almost entirely forgotten until A. H.
Bullen edited his works in 1889.
He now ranks, by almost universal
consent, as one of the most charm-
ing of Elizabethan lyrical poets. It
is seldom that <( music and sweet
poetry agree " as they do in his
poems, because it is "seldom that
poet and musician are combined in
one person. Sometimes, doubtless
he set his words to music, and at
other times he wrote words to fit
some air that was running through
his head; as is natural, poems of
the former kind arc superior to the
others. But all his poems are good;
and he can even perform the most
difficult feat of writing sacred
pieces which are as good as his
secular poems. As a writer of
masques he was not so good; it is
perhaps foolish to complain that a
THOMAS CAMPION
167
masque lacks plot, as by its very
nature it is an insubstantial pageant;
but construction of some kind is
looked for, and is looked for in
vain in the masques of Campion.
He relied on his lyrics and music to
make his masques successful. As a
writer of lyrics Campion is original,
fresh, spontaneous, and masterly.
The variety of his metres and his
absolute command over each kind
are remarkable. It is most fortu-
nate that, with the " inconsistency
which distinguishes man from the
brutes ", Campion did not practise
what he preached and did not
eschew rhyme. Bullen has likened
him to Meleager, but at his best
Campion is superior to that de-
lightful but exotic Greek. Cam-
pion's best poems have the abandon
and the apparent artlessness of the
bird-songs in Aristophanes.
[Editions by A. H. Bullen and
S. P. Vivian; Paul Reyher, Les
Masques Anglais; T. Macdonagh,
Thomas Campion and the Art of
English Poetry.
Rose-cheeked Laura, come
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed;
Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord.
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew 'd by flowing.
Ever perfect, ever in them-
selves eternal.
The peaceful western wind
The winter storms hath tam'd,
And nature in each kind
The kind heat hath inflam'd:
The forward buds so sweetly breathe
Out of their earthy bowers,
That heav'n which views their pomp beneath
Would fain be decked with flowers.
THOMAS CAMPION
See how the morning smiles
On her bright eastern hill,
And with soft steps beguiles
Them that lie slumb 'ring still .
The music-loving birds are come
From cliffs and rocks unknown,
To see the trees and briers bloom
That late were overflown.
What Saturn did destroy,
Love's Queen revives again;
And now her naked boy
Doth in the fields remain,
Where he such pleasing change doth view
In ev'ry living thing,
As if the world were born anew
To gratify the Spring.
If all things life present,
Why die my comforts then?
Why suffers my content?
Am I the worst of men?
0, beauty, be not thou accused
Too justly in this case:
Unkindly if true love be used,
Twill yield thcc little grace.
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine,
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey Love,
While youthful Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights
Sleep 's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
THOMAS CAMPION 169
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread;
Some knotted Riddles tell;
Some Poems smoothly read.
The Summer hath his joys,
And Winter his delights;
Though Love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
Jack and Joan they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Do their weekdays' work, and pray
Devoutly on the holy day:
Skip and trip it on the green,
And help to choose the Summer Queen:
Lash out, at a Country Feast,
Their silver penny with the best.
Well can they judge of nappy Ale,
And tell at large a Winter tale;
Climb up to the Apple loft,
And turn the Crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the father's joy,
And little Tom the mother's boy.
All their pleasure is content;
And care, to pay their yearly rent
Joan can call by name her Cows,
And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tuttyes make,
And trim with plums a Bridal Cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss ;
And his long Flail can stoutly toss:
Make the hedge, which others break,
And ever thinks what he doth speak.
Now, you Courtly Dames and Knights,
That study only strange delights;
Though you scorn the home-spun gray,
And revel in your rich array:
THOMAS CAMPION
Though your tongues dissemble deep,
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet, for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly Swain.
What then is love but mourning?
What desire, but a self-burning?
Till she that hates doth love return,
Thus will I mourn, thus will I sing,
" Come away, come away, my darling.*'
Beauty is but a blooming,
Youth in his glory entombing;
Time hath a while, which none can stay:
Then come away, while thus I sing,
" Come away, come away, my darling,"
Summer in winter f acleth ;
Gloomy night heav'nly light shiulcih:
Like to the morn arc Venus' flowers;
Such arc her hours: then will I sing,
" Come away, come away, my darling,"
Thrice toss these Oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair;
And thrice three times tie up this true love's knot,
And murmur soft, " She will, or she will not;/ 3
Go burn these pois'nous weeds in yon blue lire,
These Screech-owl's feathers and this prickling brier;
This Cypress gathered at a dead man's grave;
That all thy fears and cares aa end may have.
Then come, you Fairies, dance with me a round;
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound:
In vain are all the charms I can devise;
She hath an Art to break them with her eyes.
THOMAS CAMPION
Her fair inflaming eyes,
Chief authors of my cares,
I prayed in humblest wise
With grace to view my tears:
They beheld me broad awake,
But alas, no ruth would take.
Her lips with kisses rich,
And words of fair delight,
I fairly did beseech,
To pity my sad plight;
But a voice from them brake forth,
As a whirlwind from the North.
Then to her hands I fled,
That can give heart and all;
To them I long did plead,
And loud for pity call:
But, alas, they put me off,
With a touch worse than a scoff.
So back I straight returned,
And at her breast I knocked;
Where long in vain I mourned,
Her heart so fast was locked:
Not a word could passage find,
For a Rock enclosed her mind.
Then down my prayers made way
To those most comely parts,
That make her fly or stay,
As they affect deserts:
But her angry feet, thus moved,
Flecl with all the parts I loved.
Yet fled they not so fast,
As her enraged mind:
Still did I after haste,
Still was I left behind;
Till I found 'twas to no end,
With a Spirit to contend.
THOMAS CAMPION
Kind arc her answers,
But her performance keeps no clay;
Breaks time, as dancers
From their own Music when they stray:
All her free favours
And smooth words wing my hopes in vain.
O did ever voice so sweet but only feign?
Can true love yield such delay,
Converting joy to pain?
Lost is our freedom >
When we submit to women so :
Why do we need them,
When in their best they work our woe?
There is no wisdom
Can alter ends, by Fate prefixed.
why is the good of man with evil mixed?
Never were clays yet called two,
But one night went betwixt.
Whea them must home to shades of under ground,
And there arrived, a new admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do ingirt thec round,
White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stones of thy finished love
From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
Then wilt tkm speak of banqueting -delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
When thou hast tolcl these honours done to thec,
Then tell, tell, how thou didst murder me.
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,
Though thou be black as night,
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow.
Follow her whose light thy light depriveth,
Though here thou liv'st disgraced,
And she in heaven is placed,
Yet follow her whose light the world rcvrveth.
THOMAS CAMPION
Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth,
That so have scorched thee,
As thou still black must be,
Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth,
Follow her while yet her glory shineth:
There comes a luckless night,
That will dim all her light;
And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still since so thy fates ordained;
The Sun. must have his shade,
Till both at once do fade,
The Sun still proud, the shadow still disdained.
My sweetest Lesbia let us live and love,
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them: heav'ns great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive,
But soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever- during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armour should not be,
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of love:
But fools do live, and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends,
But let all lovers rich in triumph come,
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb;
And Lesbia close up thou my little light,
And crown with love my ever-during night.
The man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity,
THOMAS CAMPION
The man whose silent days,
In harmless joys arc spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly
From thunder's violence.
He only can behold
With unaffrightcd eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the Skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heav'n his book,
His wisdom heav'nly things f
Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inn
And quiet Pilgrimage.
Whether men do laugh or weep,
Whether they do wake or sleep,
Whether they die young or old,
Whether they feel heat or cold ;
There is, underneath the sun,
Nothing in true earnest done.
All our pride is but a jest;
None are worst, and none are best;
Grief, and joy, and hope, and fear,
Play their Pageants everywhere :
Vain opinion all cloth sway,
And the world is but a play.
Powers above in clouds do sit,
Mocking our poor apish wit;
That so lamely, with such state,
Their high glory imitate:
No ill can be felt but pain,
And that happy men disdain.
SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING
SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER
EARL OF STIRLING
(c. 1567-1640)
SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER was born
about 1567, and was educated at
the grammar-school at Stirling and
the universities of Glasgow and
Leyden. He was appointed tutor
to the seventh Earl of Argyle, whom
he accompanied to France, Spain,
and Italy. On his return he was
attached to the court of King
James, and was eventually appointed
tutor to Prince Henry. In 1603 he
followed James to England, and in
the same year published his closet-
tragedy Darius. His other similar
tragedies are Croesus (1604), The
Alexandrean Tragedy (1605), and
Julius Casar (?i6o7). The last-
named play, though its date is
uncertain, was without doubt later
than Shakespeare's play on the
same subject; nor is it necessary
to suppose, as has frequently been
done, that Shakespeare had in mind
an obscure passage of Darius when
he penned a famous passage in The
Tempest. In 1604 Alexander pub-
lished A Paraenesis to the Prince , a
poem of good advice addressed to
Prince Henry, perhaps the most
pleasing of his productions. In the
same year appeared a collection of
sonnets entitled Aurora, in which
perhaps there is a certain amount
of camouflaged autobiography. His
sonnets are often good, though they
appeared after the hey-day of the
sonnet, so that he ranks as a camp-
follower rather than as a pioneer.
In 1607 he published his four
tragedies in one volume entitled
Monarchicke Tragedies. He was
knighted in or before 1609. He
wrote the customary lament for the
death of Prince Henry in 1612, and
was appointed tutor to Prince
Charles. In the following year he
published an unimportant com-
pletion of the third part of the
Arcadia. His sacred epic Doomes-
day, a " stupendous, monstr'-
mform-ingens-horrendous " piece
of work in 12,000 lines, began to
appear in 1614. The rest of
Alexander's life was devoted more
to politics than to literature. In
1614 he was made Master of
Requests. In 1621 he was granted
vast tracts of land in Nova Scotia
and Canada, and played a prominent
part in Scottish colonization schemes
and in the granting of baronetcies
of Nova Scotia. He wrote his
admirable prose Encouragement to
Colonies to further his schemes, but
they were mostly unsuccessful. In
1626 he became Secretary of State
for Scotland, and was created a
viscount in 1630 and an earl in
1633, when Charles was crowned
at Holyrood. In 1631 he published
the unfortunate metrical version of
the Psalms which King James
nominally perpetrated, though there
is little doubt that Alexander sub-
jected the royal effusions to a
rigorous revision which sometimes
amounted to rewriting. This book
was a failure from every point
of view, including the pecuniary.
Lord Stirling collected his writings
in a sumptuous folio in 1637, under
the title Recreations with the Muses.
176 SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING
This edition included a fragmentary
sacred epic Jonathan^ and omitted
his earlier amatory poems. He
died insolvent in 1640.
Alexander was a wise and patriotic
statesman; his ability has perhaps
been insufficiently recognized by
historians, as he was an episco-
palian, As a man he had a genius
for friendship, and was loved by
such men as Drayton and Drum-
mond of Hawthornden. As a poet
he does not stand high; as a drama-
tist he can hardly be said to have
any standing. " His tragedies were
reckoned much too thoughtful for
the stage"; they were didactic
poems rather than plays. He is
weighty, laboured, and dull; in
Ins large output little poetry is to
be found. But there is some;
occasional lines and passages will
cheer the persevering reader, so
that he can renew his strength' and
proceed without weariness.
[C. Rogers, Memorials of the
Earl of Stirling-, L. E. Kastner and
1 1. B. Charlton, The. Poetical Works
of Sir William Alexander, Earl of
Stirling (S.T.S.).]
Aurora
SONNET I
Whilst charming fancies move me to reveale
The idle ravings of my brain-sickc youth,
My heart doth pant within, to hcarc my mouth
Unfold the follies which it would concealer
Yet bitter Critickes may mistake my mind;
Not beautie, no, but vcrtuc raisd my fires,
Whose sacred flame did cherish chast desires,
And through my cloudie fortune clearely shiu'd.
But had not others otherwise advisd,
My cabinet should yet these scrolcs containe,
This childish birth of a conceitie brainc;
Which I had still as trifling toyes despiscl:
Pardon those errours of mine unripe age;
My tender Muse by time may grow more sage.
SONNET XII
Sweet blushing goddesse of the golden morning,
Faire patronesse of all the worlds affaires,
Thou art become so carelesse of my cares,
That I must name thee goddesse of rny mourning.
Lo how the Sunne part of thy burthen bcares,
And whil'st thou doest in pearly drops rcgrate,
As t'were to pitie thy distressd state,
Exhales the Christall of thy glistring tcares;
SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING 177
But I poure forth my vowes before thy shrine ;
And whil'st thou dost my loving zeal despise,
Do drowne my heart in th' ocean of mine eyes;
Yet daign'st thou not to drie these teares of mine,
Unlesse it be with th' Aetna of desires,
Which even amidst those floods doth foster fires.
SONNET XCIII
Mine eyes would ever on thy beauties gaze,
Mine eares are ever greedie of thy fame,
My heart is ever musing on the same,
My tongue would still be busied with thy praise:
I would mine eyes were blind and could not see,
I would mine eares were deafe and would not heare;
I would my heart would never hold thee deare,
I would my tongue all such reports would flee:
Th' eyes in their circles do thy picture hold,
Th' eares conducts keepe still ecchoes of thy worth,
The heart can never barre sweet fancies forth,
The tongue that which I thinke must still unfold:
Thy beauties then from which I would rebell,
Th' eyes see, th' eares heare, th' heart thinks, and
tongue must tell.
MICHAEL DRAYTON
(1563-1631)
MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at
Hartshill, in Warwickshire, in 1563.
His father was a well-to-do man of
the middle classes. We know little
of his boyhood and early years,
and there is no reason to believe
that he was a University man. We
do know, however, on his own
authority, that he cherished poetical
ambitions at an unusually pre-
cocious age, and judging from the
strenuousness of his character we
may feel sure that he served a long
and arduous apprenticeship to the
VOL. II,
divine art of poetry. He appears
to have been for some time a page
in the family of Sir Henry Goodere
of Polesworth, near Tamworth. In
1591 he published The Harmonie
of the Church, a not very promising
versification of certain passages of
the Old Testament and Apocrypha.
Though apparently a blameless
production, this book for some
reason offended the authorities and
was suppressed. In 1593 he pub-
lished his collection of nine eclogues,
Idea, the Shepheard's Garland,
36
I 7 8
MICHAEL DRAYTON
which owes a considerable debt to
Spenser. This volume, like many
of Drayton's works, was later sub-
jected to a most drastic revision.
His second thoughts almost in-
variably follow the proverb in
being best; his pastoral poems in
their revised form (1606) rank
among the most pleasing of his
writings. Several critics have
attempted to identify Drayton's
pastoral characters, especially, of
course, Idea herself, with actual
persons, but the results of these
speculations are so uncertain that
it is scarcely worth while recording
them here. In 1594 Drayton wrote
Peirs Gaveston Earle of Cornwall
and Matilda^ the faire and chaste
daughter of the Lord Robert Fitz-
water; in 1596 he wrote The
Tragicall Legend of Robert Duke of
Normandy , and eleven years later
The Legend of Great Cromwcl.
These four legends belonged even
at the time of their appearance to a
somewhat old-fashioned school of
poetry; like Falstaff, they were born
with a white head. They all contain
admirable passages. In 1594 he
wrote his sonnet-sequence Ideas
Mirrour, which was carefully re-
vised no fewer than five times. The
sonnets are in the Shakespearean
not the Petrarchan form. Many of
them, especially in their revised
form, contain fine lines; but it is
seldom that Drayton can remain on
the heights for an entire quatorzain.
Endimion and Phoebe appeared in
1595; it is a pleasing and beautiful
poem. His ambitious historical
poem Mortimeriados appeared in
1596;^ it was written in rhyme royal,
and in 1603 was recast into the
eight-line stanza and renamed The
Barrons Wars. Few men, save
Drayton, who had accomplished
the task of writing such a pcem,
would have undertaken the labour
of rewriting it. In neither version
is it satisfactory. One of Drayton's
most popular poems, England*
Heroicall Epistles, modelled upon
Ovid's Pleroides, was published in
1597. It is written in admirably
smooth heroic couplets. About
this time Drayton was drawn into
the vortex of Elizabethan drama.
It is uncertain whether he wrote
any plays single-handed, and the
only extant play which contains his
work is The First Part of Sir John
Oldcastle, of which he was one of
the four authors. Drama obviously
was not his bent. In 1603 Drayton
unsuccessfully attempted to in-
gratiate himself with King James;
his disappointment when rebuffed
caused him to write a flat satire,
The Owle, in 1604. In the same
year appeared Moyses in a Map of
his Miracles] this poem was re-
vised in 1630. His Odes (1606)
contains the admirable Ballad of
Agincourt. Polyolbiou, his most
stupendous and most frequently
named (not most frequently read)
work was long on the stocks. We
know from Francis Meres that he
was at work on it in 1598, but the
first eighteen "songs" were not
published until 1613. There were
difficulties about finding a pub-
lisher for more, and twelve more
" songs " were not printed until
1622. The poem is a poetical
gazetteer of England, and would
have included Scotland had it met
with a more favourable reception,
Its composition must have necessi-
tated a vast amount of research
and labour; Sclden supplied the
first eighteen " songs " with a
learned commentary, but the text is
only slightly less learned. The
MICHAEL DRAYTON
179
poem is written in rhymed Alexan-
drine couplets; the additional two
syllables in each line change the
metre from " riding rhyme " to
ambling verse. An immense amount
of industry must have gone to the
writing of this poem; Drayton well
merits the epithet x a ^ K * VT P^
infelicitously rendered " of brazen
bowels " by Liddell and Scott.
Polyolbion was so planned that
perhaps no poet could have made
it a delightful whole; Drayton has
made of it a competent piece of
work with many interesting and
some charming passages. Some of
Drayton's latest poems are among
his best; Nimphidia (1627) is a
delightful mock-heroic fairy poem,
which might have been written by
Mercutio himself. It is an extra-
ordinary piece of work for a man of
sixty-three. The Quest of Cynthia
and The Shepheards Sirena are
graceful pastoral poems which ap-
peared in the same volume; The
Muses Elizium (1630) contains fresh
and attractive work. Drayton died
late in 1631, and was buried in
Westminster Abbey.
In his long life Drayton wrote an
astonishing amount of poetry, whose
variety is quite as remarkable as its
excellence. He wrote one of the
best sonnets, one of the best war-
songs, the longest topographical
poem, and perhaps the best fairy
poetry in the language. He was no
mere follower of poetic fashion, yet
his poems reflect the changes which
took place in English poetry be-
tween 1590 and 1630. He took a
lofty view of the dignity and
importance of his own calling, and
was never a careless though some-
times a clumsy workman. In many
respects he remained throughout
his life an Elizabethan, trying to
sing songs of Zion in a strange land.
[O. Elton, Michael Drayton: a
Critical Study] W. J. Courthope,
History of English Poetry; articles
in The Review of English Studies
(January and October, 1928) and
in The Modern Language Review
(July, 1930) by Dr. I. Gourvitch.J
Idea. 6 1
Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,
Nay, I have done: You get no more of me
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly, I myself can free,
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows,
That we one jot of former love retain;
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou would 'st, when all have given him over,
From Death to Life, thou might 'st him yet recover.
MICHAEL DRAYTON
To the Cambro-Britans
id their Harpe, his Ballad of Agincourt
Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance,
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the Mayne,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnish M in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt,
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by clay,
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French General lay,
With all his power.
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the King sending.
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
" Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won,
Have ever to the sun.
By Fame been raised.
" And, for myself (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
MICHAEL DRAYTON 181
Victor I will remain,
Or on this Earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
tc Poitiers and Crecy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat,
Lopp'd the French lilies."
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vanguard led;
With the main, Henry sped,
Amongst his hench-men.
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false Frenchmen !
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear, was wonder;
That with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to Thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim,
To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Struck the French horses,
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
MICHAEL DRAYTON
None from his fellows starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.
When down their Bows they threw,
And forth their Bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went,
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble King,
His broad-sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to overwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Gloucester, that Duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight,
Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
MICHAEL DRAYTON
Which Fame did not delay,
To England to carry;
O, when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
From "Nimphidia 55
Her chariot ready straight is made,
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stayed,
For naught must be her letting,
Four nimble Gnats the horses were,
Their harnesses of Gossamer,
Fly Cranion her charioteer,
Upon the coach-box getting.
Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,
Which for the colours did excel:
The fair Queen Mab becoming well,
So lively was the limning:
The seat the soft wool of the bee ;
The cover (gallantly to see),
The wing of a pied butterfly,
I trow 'twas simple trimming.
The wheels composed of crickets' bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones,
With thistledown they shod it;
For all her maidens much did fear.
If Oberon had chanced to hear,
That Mab his Queen should have been there,
He would not have abode it.
She mounts her chariot with a trice,
Nor would she stay for no advice,
Until her maids that were so nice,
To wait on her were fitted,
!8 4 MICHAEL DRAYTON
But ran herself away alone;
Which when they heard there was not one,
But hasted after to be gone,
As she had been diswitted.
Hop, and Mop, and Drop so clear,
Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were,
To Mab their sovereign ever dear:
Her special Maids of Honour;
Fib, and Tib, and Pink, and Pin,
Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
The train that wait upon her.
Upon a Grasshopper they got,
And what with Amble, and with Trot,
For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
But after her they hie them.
A cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the wind if it should blow,
Themselves they wisely could bestow,
Lest any should espy them,
(Lines 139-176.)
Polyolbion
The Sixth Song
Here then I cannot choose but bitterly exclaim
Against those fools that all Antiquity defame,
Because they have found out, some credulous ages laid
Slight fictions with the truth, whilst truth on rumour stayM;
And that one forward Time (perceiving the neglect
A former of her had) to purchase her respect,
With toys then trimmed her up, the drowsy world t> allure,
And lent her what it thought might appetite procure
To man, whose mind doth still variety pursue;
And therefore to those things whose grounds were very true.
Though naked yet and bare (not having to content
The wayward curious ear) gave fictive ornament;
And fitter thought, the truth they should in question call,
Than coldly sparing that, the truth should go and all.
MICHAEL DRAYTON 18
4
And surely I suppose, that which this froward time
Doth scandalize her with to be her heinous crime,
That hath her most preserved; for, still where wit hath found
A thing most clearly true, it made that fiction's ground:
Which she supposed might give sure colour to them both:
From which, as from a root, this wond'red error grow'th
At which our Critics gird, whose judgments are so strict,
And he the bravest man who most can contradict
That which decrepit Age (which forced is to lean
Upon Tradition) tells; esteeming it so mean,
As they it quite reject, and for some trifling thing
(Which Time hath pinned to Truth) they all away will fling.
These men (for all the world) like our Precisians be,
Who for some Cross or Saint they in the window see
Will pluck down all the Church: Soul-blinded sots that creep
In dirt, and never saw the wonders of the deep.
Therefore (in my conceit) most rightly served are they
That to the Roman trust (on his report that stay)
Our truth from him to learn, as ignorant of ours
As we were then of his; except 'twere of his powers:
Who our wise Druids here unmercifully slew;
Like whom, great Nature's depths no men yet ever knew,
Nor with such dauntless spirits were ever yet inspired ;
Who at their proud arrive th' ambitious Romans fired
When first they heard them preach the soul's immortal state;
And ev'n in Rome's despite, and in contempt of Fate,
Grasped hands with horrid death: which out of hate and pride
They slew, who through the world were rev'renced beside.
To understand our state, no marvel then though we
Should so to Caesar seek, in his reports to see
What anciently we were; when in our infant war,
Unskilful of our tongue but by interpreter,
He nothing had of ours which our great Bards did sing,
Except some few poor words; and those again to bring
Unto the Latin sounds, and easiness they used,
By their most filed speech, our British most abused.
But of our former state, beginning, our descent,
The wars we had at home, the conquests where we went,
He never understood. And though the Romans here
So noble trophies left, as very worthy were
A people great as they, yet did they ours neglect,
Long-reared ere they arrived. And where they do object,
The ruins and records we show, be very small
To prove ourselves so great: ev'n this the most of all
!86 MICHAEL DRAYTON
('Gainst their objection) seems miraculous to me,
That yet those should be found so general as they be;
The Roman, next the Pict, the Saxon, then the Dane,
All landing in this Isle, each like a horrid rain
Deforming her; besides the sacrilegious wrack
Of many a noble book, as impious hands should sack
The centre, to extirp all knowledge, and exile
All brave and ancient things, for ever from this Isle;
Expressing wondrous grief, thus wand 'ring Wye did sing.
But, back, industrious Muse; obsequiously to bring
Clear Severn from her source, and tell how she doth strain
Down her delicious dales; with all the goodly train,
Brought forth the first of all by Brugan: which to make
Her party worthy note, next, Dulas in doth take.
Moylvadian his much love to Severn then to show,
Upon her Southern side, send likewise (in a row)
Bright Biga, that brings on her friend and fellow Floyd;
Next, Dungum; Bacho then is busily employed,
Tarranon, Carno, Hawes, with Becan, and the Rue,
In Severn's sovereign banks that give attendance due.
Thus as she swoops along, with all that goodly train,
Upon her other bank by Newtown: so again
Comes Dulas (of whose name so many Rivers be,
As of none others is) with Mule, prepared to see
The confluence of their Queen, as on her course she makes:
Then at Montgomery next clear Kennet in she takes;
Where little Fledding falls into her broader bank;
Forked Vurnway, bringing Tur, and Tanot: growing rank,
She plies her towards the Poole, from the Gomcrian. fields;
Than which in all our Wales, there is no country yields
An excellenter horse, so full of natural fire,
As one of Phoebus' steeds had been that stallion's sire,
Which first their race begun; or of th' Asturian kind,
Which some have held to be begotten by the wind,
Upon the mountain mare; which strongly it receives,
And in a little time her pregnant part upheaves.
But, leave we this to such as after wonders long:
The Muse prepares herself unto another Song.
(Lines 27 5-370.)
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
187
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
( Giles, c. 1585 - 1623; Phineas, 1582 - 1650 )
THE brothers Giles and Phineas
Fletcher have become, by custom,
nearly as inseparable in histories of
literature as their first cousin John
Fletcher and Francis Beaumont.
The custom is justified, although
they never collaborated; for they
were both Cambridge men, both
clergymen, and both ardent fol-
lowers of Spenser. Giles was born
about 1585, and was educated at
Westminster School and Trinity
College, Cambridge, where he
graduated in 1606. He remained
in residence until 1618, becoming
a minor fellow of his college and
reader in Greek grammar and
language. He afterwards became
rector of Alderton, Suffolk, where
the bucolic apathy of his parishioners
is said to have hastened his death.
Giles wrote a few minor poems,
such as Canto upon the Death of
Eliza and one which a recent
editor has named A Description of
Encolpius\ but he is remembered
solely on account of his long and
elaborate sacred poem Christ's Vic-
tone and Triumph in Heaven and
Earth over and after Death (1610).
This is a noble poem, and although
its treatment of its sacred theme
may appear to some readers too
florid, it is never lacking in reverence
or in sincere religious feeling. Its
debt to Spenser is obvious; it is
written in a modification (some
would call it a mutilation) of the
Spenserian stanza. It is one of the
exceptions which confirm the rule
that the greatest of all subjects
almost invariably is treated in the
meanest type of verse.
Phineas Fletcher was born in
1582, and was educated at Eton
and King's College, Cambridge,
where he graduated B.A. in 1604,
M.A. in 1608, and B.D. some years
later. He was elected a fellow of
his college, and in 1614 wrote a
fisher-play, Sicelides, which was to
have been performed during a visit
of King James to the university.
In 1616 Fletcher left Cambridge,
and was for five years chaplain to
Sir Henry Willoughby in Derby-
shire; in 1621 he was presented
to the rectory of Hilgay, Norfolk,
where he ended his days in 1650,
after an uneventful ministry of
twenty-nine years* duration.
His first work, excluding one or
two contributions to miscellanies,
appeared in 1627. It was a Latin
poem, Locustae, with an English
paraphrase of it, The Apollyonists,
in five cantos. This poem is a
fierce attack upon the Jesuits. In
1628 was published Brittairfs Ida,
an interesting poem which the
unscrupulous publisher attributed
to Spenser. Many critics, including
Grosart and Dr. F. S. Boas,
attributed this poem on internal
evidence to Phineas Fletcher, in
spite of the publisher; the matter
was settled conclusively in 1923,
when Miss Ethel Seaton found
in the library of Sion College a
manuscript which makes Fletcher's
authorship certain. It is also cer-
tain that the poem's correct title
is Venus and Anchises, though it is
not easy to displace a title which
has been in use for three hundred
years. This MS. also contains a
i88
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
very charming Epithalamium, first
printed in 1926, It is probable that
Fletcher considered the Epithala-
mium and Venus and Anchises as
unbecoming to his cloth, and sup-
pressed the former while not ob-
jecting to the latter appearing as
the work of his master Spenser. In
1633 appeared Fletcher's chief work,
The Purple Island or the Isle of
Man, together with Piscatorie Eclogs
and Miscellanies. The Eclogs ;are
not very notable poems, inspired
by the Italian Sannazaro. The
Purple Island is not a romance, as
its title suggests, nor a Manx
history, as its sub-title might be
taken to indicate; but a portentous
allegory. The Island is man's body,
and the poem is an anatomical
lecture in verse on the human
frame, which has veins for its small
brooks, arteries for its larger streams,
and so on. It is thus a curious cross
between topography and anatomy;
in many places it is both grotesque
and disgusting; the later books,
which deal with the mind, are,
however, superior to the earlier
books which deal with " this muddy
vesture of decay ". Occasional
good passages recompense the per-
severing reader. Both Fletchers
rank as ingenious writers with
great poetical gifts which they did
not always put to the best use; both
imitated Spenser in thought, diction,
and metre; and both influenced con-
siderably the work of Milton.
[F. S. Boas, The Poetical Works
of Giles and Phincas Fletcher; Ethel
Seaton, Venus and Anchises (Brit-
tain's I (hi) and oilier Poems by
Phincas Fletcher.}
From "Christ's Triumph after Death"
But now the second Morning, from her bower.
Began to glister in her beams, and now
The roses of the day began to flower
In th' eastern garden; for heav'ns smiling brow
Half insolent for joy began to show:
The early Sun came lively dancing out,
And the bragge lambs ran wantoning about,
That heav'n and earth might seem in triumph both to shout.
Th' engladded Spring, forgetful now to weep,
Began t' eblazon from her leafy bed,
The waking swallow broke her half-year's sleep,
And every bush lay deeply purpured
With violets, the woods' late-wintry head
Wide flaming primroses set all on fire,
And his bald trees put on their green attire,
Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire.
And now the taller Sons (whom Titan warms)
Of unshorn mountains, blown with easy winds,
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER 189
Dandled the morning's childhood in their arms,
And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines,
The under Cory lets did catch the shines,
To gild their leaves, saw never happy year
Such joyful triumph, and triumphant cheer,
As though the aged world anew created were .
Say Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire,
And stick J st thy habit full of daisies red?
Seems that thou dost to some high thought aspire,
And some new-found-out Bridegroom mean'st to wed:
Tell me ye Trees, so fresh apparelled,
So never let the spiteful Canker waste you,
So never let the heav'ns with lightning blast you,
Why go you now so trimly dressed, or whither hast you?
Answer me Jordan, why thy crooked tide
So often wanders from his nearest way,
As though some other way thy stream would slide,
And fain salute the place where something lay?
And you sweet birds, that shaded from the ray,
Sit carolling, and piping grief away,
The while the lambs to hear you dance, and play,
Tell me sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say?
And, thou fair Spouse of Earth, that every year,
Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride,
How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near?
Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spied,
That in one place for joy thou canst not bide:
And you dead Swallows, that so lively now
Through the flit air your winged passage row,
How could new life into your frozen ashes flow?
Yc Primroses, and purple violets,
Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed,
And woo men's hands to rent you from your sets,
As though you would somewhere be carried,
With fresh perfumes, and velvets garnished?
But ah, I need not ask, 'tis surely so,
'You all would to your Saviour's triumph go,
There would ye all await, and humble homage do.
igo GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
There should the Earth herself with garlands new
And lovely flow'rs embellished adore,
Such roses never in her garland grew,
Such lilies never in her breast she wore,
Like beauty never yet did shine before:
There should the Sun another Sun behold,
From whence himself borrows his locks of gold,
That kindle heav'n, and earth with beauties manifold.
There might the violet, and primrose sweet
Beams of more lively, and more lovely grace,
Arising from their beds of incense meet;
There should the Swallow see new life embrace
Dead ashes, and the grave unheal his face,
To let the living from his bowels creep,
Unable longer his own dead to keep:
There heav'n, and earth should see their Lord awake from sleep,
Their Lord, before by other judged to die,
Now Judge of all himself, before forsaken
Of all the world, that from his aid did fly,
Now by the Saints into their armies taken,
Before for an unworthy man mistaken,
Now worthy to be God confest, before
With blasphemies by all the basest tore,
Now worshipped by Angels, that him low adore.
Whose garment was before indipt in blood,
But now, imbright'ned into heav'nly flame,
The Sun itself outglitters, though he should
Climb to the top of the celestial frame,
And force the stars go hide themselves for shame:
Before that under earth was buried,
But now about the heav'ns is carried,
And there for ever by the Angels heried.
So fairest Phosphor the bright Morning star,
But newly washed in the green element,
Before the drowsy night is half aware,
Shooting his flaming locks with dew besprent,
Springs lively up into the orient,
And the bright drove, fleec'd all in gold, he chases
To drink, that on the Olympic mountain grazes,
The while the minor Planets forfeit all their faces.
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER 191
So long he wandered in our lower sphere,
That heav'n began his cloudy stars despise,
Half envious, to see on earth appear
A greater light, than flamed in his own skies:
At length it burst for spite, and out there flies
A globe of winged Angels, swift as thought,
That, on their spotted feathers, lively caught
The sparkling Earth, and to their azure fields it brought.
The rest, that yet amazed stood below,
With eyes cast up, as greedy to be fed,
And hands upheld, themselves to ground did throw,
So when the Trojan boy was ravished,
As through th' Idalian woods they say he fled,
His aged Guardians stood all dismayed,
Some lest he should have fallen back afraid,
And some their hasty vows, and timely prayers said.
Toss up your heads ye everlasting gates,
And let the Prince of glory enter in:
At whose brave volley of sidereal States,
The Sun to blush, and stars grow pale were seen,
When, leaping first from earth, he did begin
To climb his Angel's wings; then open hang
Your crystal doors, so all the chorus sang
Of heav'nly birds, as to the stars they nimbly sprang.
Hark how the floods clap their applauding hands,
The pleasant valleys singing for delight,
And wanton Mountains dance about the Lands,
The while the fields, struck with the heav'nly light,
Set all their flow'rs a-smiling at the sight,
The trees laugh with their blossoms, and the sound
Of the triumphant shout of praise, that crown'd
The flaming Lamb, breaking through heav'n, hath passage found.
Out leap the antique Patriarchs, all in haste,
To see the pow'rs of Hell in triumph led,
And with small stars a garland mterchas'd
Of olive leaves they bore, to crown his head,
That was before with thorns degloried,
After them flew the Prophets, brightly stol'd
In shining lawn, and wimpled manifold,
Striking their ivory harps, strung all in chords of gold.
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
To which the Saints victorious carols sung,
Ten thousand Saints at once, that with the sound,
The hollow vaults of heav'n for triumph rung:
The Cherubims their clamours did confound
With all the rest, and clapped their wings around:
Down from their thrones the Dominations flow,
And at his feet their crowns and sceptres throw,
And all the princely Souls fell on their faces low.
Nor can the Martyrs' wounds them stay behind,
But out they rush among the heav'nly crowd,
Seeking their heav'n out of their heav'n to find,
Sounding their silver trumpets out so loud,
That the shrill noise broke through the starry cloud,
**w mj f
And all the virgin Souls, in pure array,
Came dancing forth, and making joyous play;
So him they lead along into the courts of day.
So him they lead into the courts of clay,
Where never war, nor wounds abide him more,
But in that house, eternal peace doth play,
Aquieting the souls, that new before
Their way to heav'n through their own blood did score,
But now, estranged from all misery,
As far as heav'n, and earth cliscoastcd lie,
Swelter in quiet waves of immortality.
(Stansas 1-20.)
From " Venus and Anchises"
(Brittain's Ida)
CANTO V
The Argument
The lover's sad despairing plaints
Bright Venus with his love acquaints;
Sweetly importun'd, he doth show,
From whom proceeded! this his woe.
Yet never durst his faint and coward heart
(Ah, Fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er coulcl win)
Assail fair Venus with his new-learnt art,
But kept his love and burning flame within,
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER 193
Which more flamed out the more he pressed it in:
And thinking oft how just she might disdain him,
While some cool myrtle shade did entertain him,
Thus sighing would he sit, and sadly would he plain him:
/
" Ah, fond and hapless Boy! nor know I whether
More fond or hapless more, that all so high
Hast placed thy heart, where love and fate together
May never hope to end thy misery,
Nor yet thy self dare wish a remedy!
All hindrances (alas!) conspire to let it.
Ah, fond, and hapless Boy! if can'st not get it!
In thinking to forget, at length learn to forget it:
11 Ah, far too fond but much more hapless Swain!
Seeing thy love can be forgotten never,
Serve and observe thy love with willing pain;
And though in vain thy love thou do persever,
Yet all in vain do thou adore her ever.
No hope can crown thy hopes so far aspiring,
Nor dares thyself desire thine own desiring,
Yet live thou in her love and die in her admiring."
Thus oft the hopeless boy complaining lies:
But she, that well could guess his sad lamenting,
(Who can conceal love from Love's mother's eyes?)
Did not disdain to give his love contenting;
Cruel the soul that feeds on soul's tormenting:
Nor did she scorn him, though not nobly born,
(Love is nobility) nor could she scorn
That with so noble skill her title did adorn.
One day it chanced, thrice happy day and chance!
While Loves were with the Graces sweetly sporting,
And to fresh music sounding play and dance,
And Cupid's self, with shepherd's boys consorting,
Laughed at their pretty sport and simple courting,
Fair Venus seats the fearful boy close by her,
Where never Phoebus' jealous looks might eye her,
And bids this boy his mistress and her name descry her.
Long time the youth bound up in silence stood,
While hope and fear with hundred thoughts begun
Fit prologue to his speech; and fearful blood
VOL. II. 37
i 94 GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
From heart and face with these post-tidings run,
That either now he's made, or now undone;
At length his trembling words, with fear made weak,
Began his too long silence thus to break,
While from his humble eyes first reverence seemed to speak,
" Fair Queen of Love! my life thou may'st command,
Too slender price for all thy former grace
Which I receive at thy too bounteous hand;
But never dare I speak her name and face;
My life is much less prized than her disgrace:
And, for I know if I her name relate
I purchase anger, I must hide her state,
Unless thou wear by Styx, I purchase not her hate."
Fair Venus well perceived his subtle shift,
And, swearing gentle patience, gently smiled,
While thus the boy pursued his former drift:
" No tongue was ever yet so sweetly skilled,
Nor greatest orator so highly styled,
Though helped with all the choicest arts direction,
But when he durst describe her heaven's perfection,
By his imperfect praise dispraised his imperfection.
"Her form is as her self, perfect coelcstial,
No mortal spot her heavenly frame disgraces:
Beyond compare such nothing is terrestrial;
More sweet than thought or powerful wish embraces;
The map of heaven, the sum of all her graces:
But if you wish more truly lirnn'd to eye her,
Than fainting speech or words can well descry her,
Look in a glass, and there most perfect you may spy her.**
From "The Purple Island"
Six goodly Cities built with suburbs round,
Do fair adorn this lower region:
The first Koilia, whose extremest bound
On this side bordered by the Splenion,
On that by sovereign Hepar's large commands:
The merry Diazome above it stands,
To both these joined in league and never failing bands.
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
The form as when with breath our bag-pipes rise,
And swell round-wise, and long, yet long-wise more;
Framed to the most capacious figure's guise:
For 'tis the Island's garner; here its store
Lies treasured up, which well prepared it sends
By secret path that to th' Arch-city bends;
Which making it more fit, to all the Isle dispends.
Far hence at foot of rocky Cephal's hills
This City's steward dwells in vaulted stone;
And twice a day KoihVs store-house fills
With certain rent and due provision:
Aloft he fitly dwells in arched cave;
Which to describe I better time shall have,
When that fair mount I sing, and his white curdy wave.
At that cave's mouth twice sixteen porters stand,
Receivers of the customary rent;
Of each side four the foremost of the band
Whose office to divide what in is sent:
Straight other four break it in pieces small;
And at each hand twice five, which grinding all,
Fit it for convoy, and this City's arsenal.
From thence a Groom with wondrous volubility
Delivers all unto near officers,
Of nature like himself, and like agility;
At each side four, that are the governors
To see the victuals shipped at fittest tide ;
Which straight from thence with prosp'rous channel slide,
And in Koilia's port with nimble oars glide.
The haven, framed with wondrous sense and art,
Opens itself to all that entrance seek;
Yet if ought back would turn, and thence depart,
With thousand w r rinkles shuts the ready creek:
But when the rent is slack, it rages rife,
And routines in itself with civil strife:
Thereto a little groom eggs it with sharpest knife.
Below dwells in this City's market-place
The Island's common cook, Concoction;
Common to all; therefore in middle space
Is quartered fit in just proportion;
196 GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER
Whence never from his labour he retires ;
No rest he asks, or better change requires:
Both night and day he works, ne'er sleeps, nor sleep desires.
That heat, which in his furnace ever fumeth,
Is nothing like to our hot parching fire;
Which all consuming, self at length consumeth;
But moist 'ning flames a gentle heat inspire,
Which sure some in-born neighbour to him lendeth;
And oft the bordering coast fit fuel sendeth,
And oft the rising fume, which down again dcscemleth
Like to a pot, where under hovering
Divided flames, the iron sides entwining,
Above is stopped with close-laid covering,
Exhaling fumes to narrow straits confining;
So doubling heat, his duty doubly spccdcth:
Such is the fire Concoction's vessel necdcth,
Who daily all the Isle with fit provision fccdcth.
There many a groom the busy Cook attends
In under offices, and several place:
This gathers up the scum, and thence it sends
To be cast out; and liquors base,
Another garbage, which the kitchen cloys,
And divers filth, whose scent the place annoys,
By divers secret ways in under-sinks convoys.
(Canto 77, slansds zj to 36.)
FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT
ST. ALBANS
( 1561 - 1626 )
FRANCIS BACON was born in Lon-
don in 1561. His father was Sir
Nicholas Bacon, Lord -Keeper of
the Great Seal, and Lord Burleigh
was his uncle by marriage. Bacon
entered Trinity College, Cambridge,
at the abnormally early age of
twelve, and left three years later,
without a degree and with small
reverence for Aristotle and none
for his medieval followers. In 1575
he was admitted to Gray's Inn;
from 1576 to 1579 he was at Paris
in the suite of Sir Amyas Paulet,
FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS
197
the English ambassador. The
death of his father called him back
to England, and being left in
straitened circumstances he zeal-
ously pursued the study of law, and
was admitted a barrister in 1582.
In 1584 he became member of
Parliament for Melcombe Regis,
and soon after drew up a letter of
advice to Queen Elizabeth, an able
political memoir, which did not
further its author's promotion. In
1586 he was member for Taunton,
in 1589 for Liverpool, and he con-
tinued to sit in the House of
Commons until he was elevated to
the peerage. His talents and his
connexion with Burleigh seemed
to mark him out for high office;
but his promotion was slow, he
offended the queen by an un-
characteristic display of frankness,
and his uncle was apparently jealous
of his great gifts. He attached him-
self to the Earl of Essex, who
endeavoured to secure for him the
post of attorney-general, and, hav-
ing failed in that, the solicitor-
generalship, which was also be-
stowed elsewhere. Essex, with his
usual generosity, compensated Bacon
by presenting him with an estate
which was afterwards sold for
1800. Bacon, however, forgot his
obligations to his benefactor, and
not only abandoned him as soon
as he had fallen into disgrace, but
without being obliged took part
against him in his trial (1601), was
active in securing his conviction,
and, after his execution, blackened
his memory in a pamphlet, which
was, however, officially " edited "
before publication. Bacon's con-
duct has sometimes been repre-
sented as worse than it was; some
of his admirers, on the other hand,
have tried to make out that he
played the part of a blameless and
patriotic barrister. The truth is
that he behaved not like a scoundrel,
but like a cold-hearted opportunist.
When James I came to the throne,
Bacon thought his opportunity had
come, and was assiduous in court-
ing the king's favour. He was
knighted, along with three hundred
others, at the coronation in 1603;
in 1604 he was appointed King's
Counsel, with a pension of 60;
in 1606 he made a marriage which
was prudent from the pecuniary
point of view. At the age of forty-
six he at last began to mount the
ladder at which he had gazed in
vain for many years; he was
appointed Solicitor- General. In
1613 he became Attorney- General;
in 1617 he was made Lord- Keeper,
and in 1618 Lord High Chancellor
and Baron Verulam. In this year
he lent his influence to bring about
the execution of Raleigh. In 1621
he was advanced a step in the
peerage and became Viscount St.
Albans. As he himself said in one
of his essays, " Prosperity doth best
discover vice ", and, soon after
reaching the zenith of his career,
he fell like Lucifer, never to rise
again. A new Parliament was
formed in 1621, and the Lord
Chancellor was accused before the
House of bribery, corruption, and
other malpractices. It is difficult
to ascertain the full extent of his
guilt, but he seems to have been
unable to justify himself; his nerve
and his health gave way, and he
handed in a " confession and
humble submission ", throwing him-
self on the mercy of the Peers. He
was condemned to pay a fine of
40,000 and to be committed to
the Tower during the king's pleas-
ure; he was also declared incom-
FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS
petent to hold any office of state,
and was banished from court for
ever. The sentence, however, was
never carried out. The fine was
remitted almost as soon as imposed,
and he was imprisoned for only a
few days. He survived his fall
five years, occupying himself with
his literary and scientific works,
and vainly hoping for political
employment. His death was caused
by his devotion to science. He was
experimenting in the art of re-
frigeration, and when stuffing a
fowl with snow caught a chill,
which turned into a fatal attack of
bronchitis. He died on Easter
Day, 1626.
To turn from Bacon's life to his
works is to turn from a sordid and
melancholy spectacle to one of the
greatest glories of England and
Europe. His celebrated Essays
first appeared in 1597; there are,
however, only ten in this edition;
that of 1612 contained thirty-eight,
and the final edition of 1625 fifty-
eight. The Essays immediately
became and have always remained
very popular; they are packed
with thought" infinite riches in a
little room "and their brilliance
is so great that at times it is almost
cloying. The treatise on The
Advancement of Learning appeared
in 1605; it is a wise and weighty
exposition of some of Bacon's
philosophy, couched in the choicest
English. His Life of Henry VII
(1622) was the first-fruits of his
compulsory leisure. It is an ad-
mirable historical work, and gives
a vivid portrait of the king, upon
which modern historical research
has done little to improve. Sylva
Sylvarum and The New Atlantis
were posthumously published in
1627; the latter is a fragmentary
philosophical romance, of great
literary and scientific interest. "Just
as ^ Campion, one of our greatest
lyrists, disbelieved in the use of
rhyme, in which he excelled, so did
Bacon, one of the greatest masters
of English prose, mistrust English
as a permanent vehicle for thought.
His greatest philosophical works
were written in Latin. DC Sapientia
Veterum. appeared in 1609; it is
a somewhat supersubtle interpre-
tation of ancient mythology. His
philosophic masterpiece, the Novum
Qrganiim, appeared in 1620, and
De Augmcntis Scicntiarum^ a greatly
amplified Latin version of The
Advancement of learning, in 1623.
These and other Latin works,
although they are of immense
importance in the history of thought,
cannot be discussed at any length
in a book on English literature.
Bacon was the offspring of a
Machiavellian father and a Cal-
vinistic mother, and some of his
peculiar notions of morality may
have been inherited. He always had
a high sense of his own outstanding
abilities; he might have said that,
like the Younger Gato, he was born
not for himself but for the whole
world; and he may have con-
sidered himself above the rules of
conduct which are binding upon
ordinary men. In some respects he
was a thorough man of the world;
in other respects he seemed unable
to grasp simple facts. He failed to
realize that his disgrace in 1621 was
permanent; and in spite of the
immense sums of money which he
earned honestly and otherwise, he
never managed to keep clear of
debt, and died owing 22,000. He
set an undue value upon pomp and
circumstance, upon rank and title,
things which men of much less
FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS
199
ability can afford to despise. Bacon
was great as an historian, a writer
on politics, and a rhetorician; but
it is as the father of the inductive
method in science, as the powerful
exponent of the principle that facts
must be observed and carefully
collected before theorizing, that he
occupies the position he holds
among the world's great ones. The
key-notes of his philosophy were
Utility and Progress. He held,
with the King of Brobdingnag,
that whoever could make two ears
of corn or two blades of grass grow
where only one grew before, de-
served well of mankind. Like
Heracles in legend or like Epicurus
in the ancient world, Bacon was a
liberator of the human race. The
philosophy of the schoolmen led
nowhere; every student of it soon
found himself lost in a maze of
superscholastic subtleties. Bacon's
philosophy was practical, the ends
which it proposed were attainable;
it was also progressive, so that every
generation of those who have
followed Bacon's methods begins
where the previous generation left
off. To his methods we owe
directly or indirectly most of the
important inventions of the nine-
teenth and twentieth centuries.
Bacon took all knowledge to be his
province, and his omniscience puts
to shame the narrow specialism of
to-day, with its imperfect system of
liaison officers between the various
branches of science. As a stylist
Bacon is eminent; few English
writers possess a more pregnant
style. He is a great rhetorician in
every sense of that word.
It should be noted that the title
" Lord Bacon " is incorrect, though
almost (not quite) sanctioned by
usage. Bacon was Lord Yerulam
and afterwards Viscount St. Albans;
it is as incorrect to call him " Lord
Bacon " as it would be to call Lord
Hailsham, his remote successor In
the Chancellorship, c< Lord Hogg ".
[J. Spedding, R. L. Ellis, D. D.
Heath, Works, Letters and Life of
Bacon] E. A. Abbott, Bacon; R.
W. Church, Bacon (English Men
of Letters Series); T. Fowler,
Bacon; Sir Sidney Lee, Great
Englishmen of the Sixteenth Century.}
Essays
Of Marriage and Single Life
He that hath Wife and Children hath given Hostages to Fortune;
For they are Impediments to great Enterprises, either of Vertue, or
Mischief e. Certainly, the best workes, and of greatest Merit for the
Publike, have proceeded from the unmarried or Childlesse Men, which,
both in Affection and Meanes, have married and endowed the Publike.
Yet it were great Reason that those that have Children should have
greatest care of future times, unto which, they know, they must transmit
their dearest pledges. Some there are who, though they lead a Single
Life, yet their Thoughts doe end with themselves, and account future
Times Impertinences. Nay, there are some other that account Wife and
Children but as Bills of charges. Nay more, there are some foolish rich
200 FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS
covetous Men that take a pride in having no Children, because they
may be thought so much the richer, For, perhaps, they have heard
some talke, Such an one is a great rich Man] And another except to it,
Yea, but he hath a great charge of Children] As if it were an Abatement
to his Riches. But the most ordinary cause of a Single Life is Liberty;
especially in certaine Selfe-pleasing and humorous Mindes, which are
so sensible of every restraint as they will goe ncare to thinke their Girdles
and Garters to be Bonds and Shackles. Unmarried Men are best Friends,
best Masters, best Servants, but not alwayes best Subjects; For they
are light to runne away, And almost all Fugitives are of that Condition.
A Single Life doth well with Church men; For Charity will hardly water
the Ground, where it must first fill a Poole. It is indifferent for Judges
and Magistrates; For if they be facile and corrupt, you shall have a
Servant five times worse than a Wife. For Souldiers, I findc the Gencralls
commonly, in their Hortatives, put Men in minde of their Wives and
Children: And I thinke the Despising of Marriage amongst the Turkes,
maketh the vulgar souldier more base. Certainly, Wife and Children
are a kinde of Discipline of Humanity; And single Men, though they
be many times more Charitable, because their Meanes are Icssc exhaust,
yet, on the other side, they are more cruell and hard hearted, (good to
make severe Inquisitors), because their Tendernesse is not so oft called
upon. Grave Natures, led by Custome and thcrforc constant, are
commonly loving Husbands; As was said of Ulysses, Velulam si/am
praetulit Immortalitati. Chast Women are often Proud and f reward, as
Presuming upon the Merit of their Chastity. It is one of the best Bonds,
both of Chastity and Obedience, in the Wife, if She thinke her Husband
Wise; which She will never doe, if She finde him Jealous. Wives are
young Men's Mistresses, Companions for middle Age, and old Men's
Nurses: So as a Man may have a Quarrell to marry, when he will. But
yet, he was reputed one of the wise Men, that made Answer to the
Question, When a Man should marry? A young Man not yet, an Elder
Man not at all. It is often seene that bad Husbands have very good
Wives; whether it be that it rayseth the Price of their Husbands' Kind-
nesse, when it comes; Or that the Wives take a Pride in their Patience.
But this never failes, if the bad Husbands were of their owne choosing,
against their friends* consent; For then they will be sure to make good
their owne Folly.
Of Love
The Stage is more beholding to Love then the Life of Man. For
as to the Stage, Love is ever matter of Comedies, and now and then
of Tragedies: But in Life it doth much mischiefe, Sometimes like a Syren,
Sometimes like a Fury. You may observe that amongst all the great
FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS 201
and worthy Persons, (whereof the memory remaineth, either Ancient
or Recent), there is not One that hath beene transported to the mad
degree of Love; which shewes that great Spirits and great Businesse
doe keepe out this weake Passion. You must except, neverthelesse,
Marcus Antonius the halfe Partner of the Empire of Rome, and Appius
Claudius the Decemvir and Law-giver; Whereof the former was indeed
a Voluptuous Man and Inordinate; but the latter was an Austere and
wise man: And therefore it seemes (though rarely) that Love can finde
entrance, not only into an open Heart, but also into a Heart well fortified,
if watch be not well kept. It is a poore Saying of Epicurus, Satis magnum
Alter Alteri Theatrum sumus: As if Man, made for the contemplation of
Heaven and all Noble Objects, should doe nothing but kneele before a
little Idoll, and make himselfe subject, though not of the Mouth (as
Beasts are) yet of the Eye, which was given him for higher Purposes.
It is a strange Thing to note the Excesse of this Passion, And how it
braves the Nature and value of things, by this, that the Speaking in a
perpetuall Hyperbole is comely in nothing but in Love. Neither is it
meerely in the Phrase; For whereas it hath beene well said that the Arch-
flatterer, with whom all the petty Flatterers have Intelligence, is a Man's
Selfe, Certainly the Lover is more. For there was never Proud Man
thought so absurdly well of himselfe as the Lover doth of the Person
loved: And therefore it was well said, That it is impossible to love and
to be wise. Neither doth this weaknesse appeare to others onely, and
not to the Party Loved, But to the Loved most of all, except the Love
be reciproque. For it is a true Rule, that Love is ever rewarded, either
with the Reciproque, or with an inward and secret Contempt. By how
much the more Men ought to beware of this Passion, which loseth not
only other things but itselfe. As for the other losses, the Poet's Relation
doth well figure them; That he that preferred Helena, quitted the Gifts
of Juno and Pallas. For whosoever esteemeth too much of Amorous
Affection, quitteth both Riches and Wisedome. This Passion hath his
Flouds in the very times of Weaknesse, which are great Prosperitie and
great Adversitie, though this latter hath beene lesse observed: Both
which times kindle Love, and make it more fervent, and therefore shew
it to be the Childe of Folly. They doe best, who, if they cannot but
admit Love, yet make it keepe Quarter, And sever it wholly from their
serious Affaires and Actions of life; For if it checke once with Businesse,
it troubleth Men's Fortunes, and maketh Men that they can no wayes
be true to their owne Ends. I know not how, but Martiall Men are given
to Love: I thinke it is but as they are given to Wine, For Perils commonly
aske to be paid in Pleasures. There is in Man's Nature a secret Inclination
and Motion towards love of others, which, if it be not spent upon some
one or a few, doth naturally spread it selfe towards many, and maketh
men become Humane and Charitable, As it is seene sometime in Friars.
203 FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS
Nuptiall love maketh Mankindc; Friendly love pcrfcctclh It; but Wanton
love Corrupteth and Imbaseth it.
Of Studies
Studies serve for Delight, for Ornament, and for Ability. Their
Chiefe Use for Delight is in Privatencsse and Retiring; For Ornament,
is in Discourse; And for Ability, is in the Judgement and Disposition
of Businesse. For Expert Men can Execute, and perhaps Judge of
particulars, one by one; But the generall Counsels, and the Hots and
Marshalling of Affaires, come best from those that are Learned. To
spend too much time in Studies is Sloth; To use them too much for
Ornament is Affectation; To make Judgement wholly by their Rules
is the Humour of a Scholler. They perfect Nature, and arc perfected
by Experience: For Naturall Abilities arc like Naturall Plants, that
need Proyning by Study: And Studies themselves doe give forth Direc-
tions too much at Large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty
Men Contemne Studies; Simple Men Admire them; And Wise Men
Use them: For they teach not their ownc Use; But that is a Wisdome
without them and above them, won by Observation. Readc not to Con-
tradict and Confute; Nor to Beleeve and Take for granted; Nor to Finde
Talke and Discourse; But to weigh and Consider. Some Hookcs arc to
be Tasted, Others to be Swallowed, and Some Few to be Chewed and
Digested: That is, some Bookes are to be read oncly in Parts; Others
to be read but not Curiously; And some Few to be read wholly, and with
Diligence and Attention. Some Bookes also may be read by Deputy,
and Extracts made of them by Others: But that would be oncly in the
lesse important Arguments, and the Meaner Sort of Bookes: else
distilled Bookes are like Common distilled Waters, Flashy Things. Read-
ing maketh a Full Man; Conference a Ready Man; And Writing an
Exact Man. And therefore, If a Man Write little, he had need have a
Great memory; If he Conferre little, he had need have a Present Wit;
And if he Reade little, he had need have much Cunning, to sccme to
know that he doth not. Histories make Men Wise; Poets Witty; The
Mathematicks Subtill; Naturall Philosophy decpc; Morall Grave,
Logick and Rhetorick Able to Contend. Abeunt studia in Mores. Nay,
there is no Stond or Impediment in the Wit but may be wrought out by
Fit Studies; Like as Diseases of the Body may have Appropriate Exercises.
Bowling is good for the Stone and Reines; Shooting for the Lungs and
Breast; Gentle Walking for the Stomacke; Riding for the Head; And
the like. So if a Man's Wit be Wandring, let him Study the Mathematicks;
For in Demonstrations, if his Wit be called away never so little, he must
begin again: If his Wit be not Apt to distinguish or find differences,
let him Study the Schoole-men; For they are Cymini sec tores. If he
FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS 203
be not Apt to beat over Matters, and to call up one Thing to Prove and
Illustrate another, let him Study the Lawyers' Cases: So every Defect
of the Minde may have a Speclall Receit.
From " The New Atlantis"
The Strangers' House is a fair and spacious house, built of brick,
of somewhat a bluer colour than our brick; and with handsome windows,
some of glass, some of a kind of cambric oiled. He brought us first into
a fair parlour above stairs, and then asked us, what number of persons
we were? and how many sick? We answered, we were in all (sick and
whole) one and fifty persons, whereof our sick were seventeen. He
desired us to have patience a little, and to stay till he came back to us,
which was about an hour after; and then he led us to see the chambers
which were provided for us, being in number nineteen. They having
cast it (as it seemeth) that four of those chambers, which were better
than the rest, might receive four of the principal men of our company;
and lodge them alone by themselves; and the other fifteen chambers
were to lodge us, two and two together. The chambers were handsome
and cheerful chambers, and furnished civilly. Then he led us to a long
gallery, like a dorture, where he showed us all along the one side (for
the other side was but wall and window) seventeen cells, very neat ones,
having partitions of cedar wood. Which gallery and cells, being in all
forty (many more than we needed), were instituted as an infirmary for
sick persons. And he told us withal, that as any of our sick waxed well,
he might be removed from his cell to a chamber: for which purpose
there were set forth ten spare chambers, besides the number we spake
of before. This done, he brought us back to the parlour, and lifting up
his cane a little (as they do when they give any charge or command),
said to us, " Ye are to know that the custom of the land requireth, that
after this day and to-morrow (which we give you for removing your
people from your ship), you are to keep within doors for three days.
But let it not trouble you, nor do not think yourselves restrained, but
rather left to your ease and rest. You shall want nothing, and there are
six of our people appointed to attend you for any business you may have
abroad." We gave him thanks with all affection and respect, and said,
" God surely is manifested in this land." We offered him also twenty
pistolets; but he smiled, and only said; "What? twice paid?" And
so he left us.
Soon after our dinner was served in; which was right good viands,
both for bread and meat: better than any collegiate diet that I have
known in Europe. We had also drink of three sorts, all wholesome and
204 ' FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBANS
good; wine of the grape; a drink of grain, suck as is with us our ale,
but more clear; and a kind of cider made of a fruit of that country; a
wonderful pleasing and refreshing drink. Besides, there were brought
in to us great store of those scarlet oranges for our sick; which (they
said) were an assured remedy for sickness taken at sea. There was given
us also a box of small grey or whitish pills, which they wished our sick
should take, one of the pills every night before sleep; which (they said)
would hasten their recovery.
JOHN DAY
(1574-? 1640)
JOHN DAY was born at Cawston,
Norfolk, in 1574, and was educated
at Ely and at Caius College, Cam-
bridge, whence he was expelled for
the not very heinous offence of mis-
appropriating a book. He became
one of Henslowe's hack writers, and
wrote over twenty plays in colla-
boration with Chettle, Haughton,
Dekker, Wentworth Smith, Hath-
way, Rowley, Wilkins, and others.
He seems to have been continually
impecunious, to have been anxious
to take holy orders late in life, and
to have died in or about 1640.
Little else is known of him, except
that Jonson classed him with others
as a " rogue " and " base fellow ".
We possess six plays which are
his in part or wholly. The Blind
Beggar of Bednal Green (c. 1600) is
by Day and Chettle; it is not a
good play. Day, William Rowley,
and Wilkins collaborated to write
The Travels of the Three English
Brothers (1607). Day wrote un-
assisted the three admirably written
comedies of The Isle of Gulls (1605),
based upon Sidney's Arcadia, Law
Tricks (1606), and Humour out of
Breath (1607). The dialogue in
these comedies is excellently viva-
cious, and is much more adroitly
managed than the plot. Day's work
in some respects resembles that of
Lyly; it is mildly cuphuistic, and
at its best is not of the earth,
earthy. Character-drawing is not
his strong point. The titles of
some of Day's lost dramas, such as
The Black Dog of Newgate^ make
us " pine for what is not ", though
it is not invariably true of old plays
that " the inside of the letter is
always the cream of the corre-
spondence ". Day is chiefly re-
membered for his Parliament of
Bees (c. 1607), which is not a play
as it is sometimes nor a masque as
it is often called; it stands to a
masque in the same relationship
which a closet- drama bears to a
stage-play. It is an altogether
charming piece of graceful and
fantastic allegory. Day gives us the
impression of having had a delicate
wit, something too gentle for the
workaday world, and of having
written for a livelihood, not because
he felt $ strong inward desire to
write. His works have been edited
by A. H, Bullen.
JOHN DAY 205
From "The Parliament of Bees"
(ULANIA, a female "Bee, confesses her passion for MELETUS, who
loves ARETHTJSA.)
not a village fly, nor meadow bee,
That traffics daily on the neighbouring plain,
But will report," how all the winged train
Have sued to me for love; when we have flown
In swarms out to discover fields new-blown.
Happy was he could find the forwardest tree,
And cull the choicest blossoms out for me;
Of all their labours they allow 'd me some
And (like my champions) mann'd me out, and home:
Yet I loved none of them. Philon, a bee
Well-skill *d in verse and amorous poetry,
As we have sat at work, both of one rose,
Has humm'd sweet canzons, both in verse and prose,
Which I ne'er minded. Astrophel, a bee
(Although not so poetical as he)
Yet in his full invention quick and ripe,
In summer evenings, on his well-tuned pipe,
Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun,
(Our hive being clean-swept, and our day's work done,)
Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I
Nor minded Astrophel, nor his melody.
Then there's Amniter, for whose love fair Leade
(That pretty bee) flies up and down the mead
With rivers in her eyes; without deserving
Sent me trim acorn bowls of his own carving,
To drink May dews and mead in. Yet none of these,
My hive-born playfellows and fellow bees,
Could I affect, until this strange bee came;
And him I love with such an ardent flame,
Discretion cannot quench.
He labours and toils,
Extracts more honey out of barren soils
Than twenty lazy drones. I have heard my father,
Steward of the hive, profess that he had rather
Lose half the swarm than him. If a bee, poor or weak,
Grows faint on his way, or by misfortune break
A wing or leg against a twig; alive,
Or dead, he'll bring into the master's hive
JOHN DAY
Him and his burthen. But the other day,
On the next plain there grew a fatal fray
Betwixt the wasps and us; the \viuil grew high,
And a rough storm raged so impetuously,
Our bees could scarce keep wing; then, fell such rain,
It made our colony forsake the plain,
And fly to garrison: yet still he stood,
And 'gainst the whole swarm made his party good;
And at each blow he gave, cried out llis Vow,
His Vow, and Aretkusa!- On each bough
And tender blossom he engraves her name
With his sharp sting. To Arcthusa's fame
He consecrates his actions; all his worth
Is only spent to character her forth,
On damask roses, and the leaves of pines,
I have seen him write such amorous moving lines
In Arethusa's praise, as my poor heart
Has, when I read them, envied her desert;
And wept and sigh'd to think that he should be
To her so constant, yet not pity me.
(PROREX, Viceroy of Bees under King OBERON, describes
his large prerogative.)
To Us (who, warranted by Oberon's love,
Write Ourself Master Bee), both Held and grove,
Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads,
(Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads
Of waaton cowslips, daisies ia their prime,
Sun-loving marigolds; the blossom *d thyme,
The blue-veia'd violets and the damask rose;
The stately lily, mistress of all those) ;
Are allow'd and given, by Oberon's free arced,
Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed.
(Oberon holds a court, in which he sentences the Wasp, the Drone, and
the Humble Bee, for divers offences against the Commonwealth of Sees.)
OBERON PROREX, his viceroy, and other Bees
PROREX
And whither must these flies be sent?
JOHN DAY 207
OBERON
To everlasting banishment.
Underneath two hanging rocks
(Where babbling Echo sits and mocks
Poor travellers) there lies a grove,
With whom the sun's so out of love,
He never smiles on't: pale Despair
Calls it his monarchal chair.
Fruits half -ripe hang rivell 'd and shrunk
On broken arms, torn from the trunk:
The moorish pools stand empty, left
By water, stolen by cunning theft
To hollow banks, driven out by snakes,
Adders, and newts, that man these lakes:
The mossy leaves, half-s welter 'd, served
As beds for vermin hunger-sterved:
The woods are yew-trees, bent and broke
By whirlwinds; here and there an oak,
Half-cleft with thunder. To this grove
We banish them.
CULPRITS
Some mercy, Jove !
OBERON
You should have cried so in your youth
When Chronos and his daughter Truth
Sojourn J d among you; when you spent
Whole years in riotous merriment.
Thrusting poor Bees out of their hives,
Seizing both honey, wax, and lives.
You should have call'd for mercy when
You impaled common blossoms; when,
Instead of giving poor Bees food,
You ate their flesh, and drank their blood.
Fairies, thrust them to their fate.
(OBERON then confirms PROREX in his government ,
and breaks up session.}
OBERON
now adieu !
Prorex shall again renew
208
JOHN DAY
His potent reign: the massy world,
Which in glittering orbs is hurl'tl
About the poles, be lord of: we
Only reserve our royalty
Field Music, Oberon must away;
For us our gentle fairies stay:
In the mountains and the rocks
Well hunt the gray, and little fox,
Who destroy our lambs at feed,
And spoil the nests where turtles breed
GEORGE CHAPMAN
(? 1559 -1634)
GEORGE CHAPMAN was born near
Hitchin about 1559. He has been
claimed as an alumnus by both
Universities, but in all probability
belonged to neither, though he was
a good scholar and ranked next to
Jonson, with a considerable interval,
however, as the most learned of
Elizabethan poets. We do not know
much about his life, except that he
was impecunious, and that he never
won the position to which he
thought his merits and attainments
entitled him. He published The
Shadow of Night: Containing Two
Poetical Hymns in 1594 an obscure
and unintelligible work. Ovid's
Banquet of Sense appeared in the
following year, together with some
difficult sonnets and other poems.
In 1598 he finished Marlowe's
exquisite but incomplete para-
phrase of Hero and Lewder; his
continuation, while it can hardly
be called a " lame and impotent
conclusion ", is not worthy of what
preceded it, as Chapman himself
modestly confessed when he wrote
of " that partly excellent Poem of
Master Marlowe's ". Some time
before 1598, when Meres published
his Palladia Tamia, Chapman began
to write for the stage. The Blind
Beggar of Alexandria (printed 1598)
and An Humorous J)ay'$ Mirth
(printed 1599) arc ineffective plays,
tlac humour and mirth of the latter
being restricted to its title. All
Fools (printed 1605) is a much
better play, in which Terence's
matter and Jonson's manner are
blended and suffused with some-
thing that is Chapman's own. In
1605 Chapman collaborated with
Jonson and Marston in the ad-
mirable but unfortunate comedy
Eastward Ho! (sec Jonson}. The
Gentleman Usher and Monsieur
d' Olive (both 1606) are two excel-
lent if somewhat unequal comedies.
Bussy d'Ambois, the most popular
of Chapman's tragedies, appeared
in 1607, and its sequel, The Revenge
of Bussy d'Ambois, appeared some
time before 1613. In 1608 ap-
peared the double tragedy of The
Conspiracy and Tragedy of Charles,
Duke of Byron. These four trage-
GEORGE CHAPMAN
209
dies are full of fiery energy and
richness of phrase and imagery,
but are lacking in truly dramatic
qualities. May Day (1611) is an
amusing farce; The Widow's Tears
(1612) is based upon the famous
story of the Matron of Ephesus, an
ancient Indian tale which Petronius
first introduced into the Western
world. Chapman did not write for
the stage again for many years, his
next play being a thewless tragedy,
Ccesar and Pompey (1631). Chap-
man collaborated once or twice
with Shirley, and may have written
some part of one or two other
plays of slight value which are often
attributed to him. His single
masque, which was written for the
Princess Elizabeth's wedding (1614),
does not make us sustain Jonson's
judgment " that next himself only
Fletcher and Chapman could make
a Mask ". Chapman was not
intended by nature to be a drama-
tist. He never learnt the art of
handling his puppets with skill.
He was an admirable gnomic poet,
and his tragedies are full of that
" highness and frequency of sen-
tence " which Jonson praised in a
tragic poet. Chapman's whole
intellectual life was governed by
his admiration for Homer, and
when he wrote drama its excellences
were those of epic poetry.
Chapman is chiefly remembered
for his rugged but mighty- mouthed
rendering of " the strong- winged
music of Homer ", and for having
been, in all probability, the rival
poet mentioned in the Sonnets of
Shakespeare. The translation of
Homer absorbed many years of his
long life. The first instalment of
the Iliad (Books I, II, VII, VIII,
IX, X, XI) appeared in 1598; the
complete Iliad appeared in 1611.
The last twelve books were trans-
lated in less than fifteen weeks.
The Iliad is rendered into lines of
fourteen syllables, and is on the
whole much more vigorous and
satisfactory than the Odyssey (1614),
which is in heroic couplets. The
Battle of the Frogs and Mice and
the Homeric Hymns followed in
1624. Chapman also translated
Hesiod and the fifth satire of
Juvenal. He was not an accom-
plished Greek scholar; though he
indignantly denied that his version
of Homer was not translated directly
from the Greek, he appears to have
found his author difficult where
there was no real difficulty. Al-
though his translation is often
inaccurate and sometimes grotesque,
it has a vehemence and fire about
it w T hich are lacking in other ver-
sions, and it still remains, taking it
for all in all, the noblest and most
Homeric rendering of Homer in
English verse. Chapman's was a
proud and turbulent spirit; he
outlived most of his contempo-
raries, and was the doyen of Eliza-
bethan dramatists; he was to some
extent a cynical and embittered
man. It was only when he reclined
on the bosom of the greatest of
epic poets that his soul knew peace.
[R. H. Shepherd, The Works of
George Chapman; A. Acheson,
Shakespeare and the Rival Poet]
A. C. Swinburne, Contemporaries
of Shakespeare] J. M. Robertson,
Shakespeare and Chapman.]
VOL TT
2io GEORGE CHAPMAN
Homer's Iliads
HECTOR and ANDROMACIIR
She ran to Hector, and with her, tender of heart mid hand,
Her son, borne in his nurse's arms; when like a heavenly sign,
Compact of many golden stars, the princely child did shine;
Whom Hector call'd Scamandrius; but whom the town did name
Astyanax; because his sire did only prop the same.
Hector, though grief bereft his speech, yet srruTd upon his joy.
Andromache cried out, mix'd hands, and to the strength of Troy,
Thus wept forth her affection: O noblest in desire!
Thy mind, inflam'd with others' good, will set thyself on fire:
Nor pitiest thou thy son, nor wife, who must thy widow be
If now thou issue: all the field will only run on thec.
Better my shoulders underwent the earth, than thy decease;
For then would earth bear joys no more: then comes the black increase
Of griefs (like Greeks on Ilion.) Alas! what one survives
To be my refuge? one black day bereft seven brothers' lives,
By stern Achilles; by his hand my father brcath'd his last:
His high-wall'd rich Cilician Thebes, sack'd by him, and laid wast:
The royal body yet he left unspoil'd: Religion charm 'cl
That act of spoil; and all in fire he burn'd him complete artn'd;
Built over him a royal tomb; and to the monument
He left of him, th* Oreades (that are the high descent
Of ^Egis-bearing Jupiter) another of their own
Did add to it, and set it round with elms; by which is shown
(In theirs) the barrenness of death: yet might it serve beside
To shelter the said monument from all the ruffinous pride
Of storms and tempests, us'd to hurt things of that noble kind.
The short life yet my mother liv'd, he sav'd; and serv'cl his mind
With all the riches of the realm; which not enough estccm'd,
He kept her prisoner; whom small time, but much more wealth redeem *d ;
And she in sylvan Hyppoplace, Cilicia rul'd again;
But soon was over-rul'd by death: Diana's chaste disdain
Gave her a lance, and took her life. Yet all these gone from me,
Thou amply render 'st all; thy life makes still my father be;
My mother; brothers: and besides thou art my husband too;
Most lov'd, most worthy. Pity then, dear love, and do not go:
For thou gone, all these go again: pity our common joy,
Lest of a father's patronage, the bulwark of all Troy-
Thou leav'st him a poor widow's charge. Stay, stay then, in this tow'r,
And call up to the wild fig-tree all thy retired pow'r:
GEORGE CHAPMAN 211
For there the wall is easiest scal'd, and fittest for surprise;
And there, th' Ajaces, Idomen, th' Atrides, Diomed, thrice
Have both survey 'd and made attempt; I know not if indue 'd
By some wise augury, or the fact was naturally infus'd
Into their wits, or courages. To this, great Hector said:
Be well assured, wife, all these things in my kind cares are weighed.
But what a shame, and fear it is, to think how Troy would scorn
(Both in her husbands and her wives, whom long-trained gowns adorn)
That I should cowardly fly off! The spirit I first did breathe
Did never teach me that; much less, since the contempt of death
Was settled in me; and my mind knew what a worthy was;
Whose office is to lead in fight, and give no danger pass
Without improvement. In this fire must Hector's trial shine;
Here must his country, father, friends, be in him made divine.
And such a stormy day shall come, (in mind and soul I know,)
When sacred Troy shall shed her tow'rs, for tears of overthrow;
When Priam, all his birth and pow'r, shall in those tears be drown'd.
But neither Troy's posterity, so much my soul doth wound;
Priam, nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brothers' woes
(Who though so many, and so good, must all be food for foes)
As thy sad state; when some rude Greek shall lead thee weeping hence;
These free days clouded ; and a night of captive violence
Loading thy temples: out of which thine eyes must never see;
But spin the Greek wives webs of task, and their fetch-water be,
To Argos, from Messeides, or clear Hyperia's spring:
Which, howsoever thou abhorr'st, Fate's such a shrewish thing,
She will be mistress; whose curst hands, when they shall crush out cries
From thy oppressions, being beheld by other enemies.
Thus they will nourish thy extremes: This dame was Hector's wife,
A man, that at the wars of Troy, did breathe the worthiest life
Of all their army. This again will rub thy fruitful wounds;
To miss the man, that to thy bands could give such narrow bounds.
But that day shall not wound mine eyes; the solid heap of night
Shall interpose, and stop mine ears, against thy plaints, and plight.
This said, he reach'd to take his son: who of his arms afraid,
And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so overlaid,
Nodded so horribly, he cling 'd back to his nurse, and cried.
Laughter affected his great sire; who dofl'd, and laid aside
His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about it light;
Then took and kiss'd his loving son; and (balancing his weight
In dancing him) these loving vows to living Jove he us'd,
And all the other bench of gods: you that have infus'd
Soul to this infant; now set down this blessing on his star:
Let his renown be clear as mine; equal his strength in war;
2i2 GEORGE CHAPMAN
And make his reign so strong hi 'Troy, that years to conic may yield
His facts this fume; - -when, rich in spoils, he leaves the conquer 'cl field
Sown with his slaughters: -These high deeds exceed his father's worth.
And let this echo'd praise supply the comforts to come forth
Of his kind mother, with my life. This said; tli' heroic sire
Gave him his mother; whose fair eyes, fresh, streams of love's salt fire,
Billow 'd on her soft cheeks, to hear the last of Hector's speech,
In which his vows compris'd the sum of all he did beseech
In her wislVd comfort. So she took into her odorous breast;
Her husband's gift; who, mov'd to see her heart so much oppressed,
He dried her tears; and thus clcsirW: Afllict me not, dear wife,
With these vain griefs. He cloth not live that can disjoin my life
And this firm bosom, but my fate; and fate, whose wings can lly?
Noble, ignoble, fate controls: once born, the best must die.
Go home, and set thy huswifery on these extremes of thought;
And drive war from them with thy maids; keep them from doing nought;
These will be nothing; leave the cares of war to men, and me;
In whom of all the Ilion race they take their high'st degree.
(From Book VI.)
Homer's Odyssey s
The bow Eumseus took, and bore away;
Which up in tumult, and almost in fray,
Put all the Wooers, one enquiring thus:
tc Whither, rogue, abject, wilt thou bear from us
That bow proposed? Lay down, or I protest
Thy dogs shall cat thee, that thou nourishest
To guard thy swine; amongst whom, left of all,
Thy life shall leave thee, if the festival,
We now observe to Phoebus, may our %eals
Grace with his aid, and all the Deities else,"
This threat made good Euma;us yield the bow
To his late place, not knowing what might grow
From such a multitude. And then fell on
Telemachus with threats, and said: " Set gone
That bow yet further; 'tis no servant's part
To serve too many masters; raise your heart
And bear it off, lest, though you're younger, yet
With stones I pelt you to the field with it.
If you and I close, I shall prove too strong.
I wish as much too hard for all this throng
GEORGE CHAPMAN 213
The Gods would make me, I should quickly send
Some after with just sorrow to their end,
They waste my victuals so, and ply my cup,
And do me such shrewd turns still." This put up
The Wooers all in laughters, and put down
Their angers to him, that so late w r ere grown
So grave and bloody; which resolved that fear
Of good Eumseus, who did take and bear
The King the bow; call'd nurse, and bade her make
The doors all sure, that if men's tumults take
The ears of some within, they may not fly,
But keep at work still close and silently.
These words put wings to her, and close she put
The chamber door. The court gates then \vere shut
By kind Philcetius, who straight did go
From out the hall, and in the portico
Found laid a cable of a ship, composed
Of spongy bulrushes ; with w T hich he closed,
In winding round about them, the court gates,
Then took his place again, to view the fates
That quickly follow 'd. When he came, he saw
Ulysses viewing, ere he tried to draw
The famous bow, which every way he moved,
Up and down turning it; in which he proved
The plight it w r as in, fearing, chiefly, lest
The horns w r ere eat with worms in so long rest.
But w r hat his thoughts intended turning so,
And keeping such a search about the bow,
The Wooers little knowing fell to jest,
And said: "Past doubt he is a man profess'd
In bowyer's craft, and sees quite through the wood;
Or something, certain, to be understood
There is in this his turning of it still.
A cunning rogue he is at any ill."
Then spake another proud one: "Would to heaven,
I might, at will, get gold till he hath given
That bow his draught!" With these sharp jests did these
Delightsome Woo'rs their fatal humours please.
But when the wise Ulysses once had laid
His fingers on it, and to proof survey'd
The still sound plight it held, as one of skill
In song, and of the harp, doth at his will.
In tuning of his instrument, extend
A string out with his pin, touch all, and lend
GEORGE CHAPMAN
To every well-wreath'd string his perfect sound,
Struck all together; with such case drew round
The King the bow. Then twang'd he up the string,
That as a swallow in the air cloth sing
With no continued tune, but, pausing still,
Twinks out her scatter 'd voice in accents shrill;
So sharp the string sung when he gave it touch,
Once having bent and drawn it. Which so much
Amazed the Wooers, that their colours went
And came most grievously. And then Jove rent
The air with thunder; which at heart did cheer
The now-enough-sustaining traveller,
That Jove again would his attempt enable.
Then took he into hand, from off the table,
The first drawn arrow; and a number more
Spent shortly on the Wooers; but this one
He measured by his arm, as if not known
The length were to him, knock'd it then, and drew;
And through the axes, at the first hole, flew
The steel-charged arrow; which when he had clone
He thus bespake the Prince: <c You have not won
Disgrace yet by your guest; for I have strook
The mark I shot at, and no such toil took
In wearying the bow with fat and fire
As did the Wooers. Yet reserved entire,
Thank Heaven, my strength is, and myself am tried,
No man to be so basely vilified
As these men pleased to think me. But, free way
Take that, and all their pleasures; and while day
Holds her torch to you, and the hour of feast
Hath now full date, give banquet, and the rest,
Poem and harp, that grace a well-fill *d board."
This said, he beckon'd to his son; whose sword
He straight girt to him, took to hand his lance,
And complete arm'd did to his sire advance.
(Book XXI, lines 479-577.)
GEORGE CHAPMAN 215
From "Bussy d'Ambois"
(A Nuntius (or Messenger) in the presence of King HENRY the Third
of France and his court tells the manner of a combat, to which he was
witness, of three to three; m which D AMBOIS remained sole sur-
vivor; begun upon an affront passed upon D'AMBOis by some
courtiers^
HENRY, GUISE, BEAUPKE, NUNTIUS, ETC.
NUNTIUS
I saw fierce D 'Ambois and his two brave friends
Enter the field, and at their heels their foes,
Which were the famous soldiers, Barrisor,
L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of arms:
All which arrived at the evenest piece of earth
The field afforded, the three challengers
Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood rank'd:
When face to face the three defendants met them,
Alike prepared, and resolute alike.
Like bonfires of contributory wood
Every man's look show'd, fed with other's spirit;
As one had been a mirror to another,
Like forms of life and death each took from other:
And so w^ere life and death mix'd at their heights,
That you could see no fear of death (for life)
Nor love of life (for death): but in their brows
Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone;
That " life and death in all respects are one ".
HENRY
Pass'd there no sort of words at their encounter?
NUNTIUS
As Hector 'twixt the hosts of Greece and Troy,
When Paris and the Spartan king should end
The nine years' war, held up his brazen lance
For signal that both hosts should cease from arms,
And hear him speak; so Barrisor (advised)
Advanced his naked rapier 'twixt both sides,
Ripp'd up the quarrel, and compared six lives
Then laid in balance with six idle words;
GEORGE CHAPMAN
Offer 'd remission and contrition too:
Or else that lie and 1) 'Ambois might: conclude
The others' dangers. D 'Ambois liked the last;
But Barrisor 's friends (being equally engaged
In the mad quarrel) never would expose
His life alone to that they all deserved.
And (for the other offer of remission)
D 'Ambois (that like a laurel put in lire
Sparkled and spit) did much much more than scorn
That his wrong should incense him so like chad:
To go so soon out, and, like lighted paper,
Approve his spirit at once both lire and ashes:
So drew they lots, and in them fates appointed
That Barrisor should fight with fiery I) 'Ambois;
Pyrrhot with Mclyncll; with Brisac LYVnou:
And then like flame and powder they commix'd,
So sprightly, that I wish'd they had been spirits;
That the ne'er-shutting wounds, they needs must open
Might as they opcn'd shut, and never kill.
But D 'Ambois' sword (that lightened as it flew)
Shot like a pointed comet at the face
Of manly Barrisor; and there it stuck:
Thrice pluck'cl he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts
From him, that of himself was free as fire;
Who thrust still, as he pluek'd, yet (past belief)
He with his subtile eye, hand, body, 'scaped;
At last the deadly bitten point tugg'd oil,
On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely
That (only made more horrid with his wound)
Great D 'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little ground:
But soon return'cl, redoubled in his danger,
And at the heart of Barrisor seal'cl his anger.
Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak
Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top
Bent to his root, which being at length made loose
(Even groaning with his weight) he 'gan to nod
This way and that, as loath his curled brows
(Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms)
Should stoop; and yet, his radical fibres burst,
Storm-like he fell, and hid the fear-cold earth:
So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks
Of ten set battles in your highness' war
'Gainst the sole soldier of the world Navarre,
JOHN MARSTON
217
JOHN MARSTON
i>
(c. 1575-1634)
JOHN MARSTON was born about
1575, probably in Coventry. His
father was a lecturer of the Middle
Temple, and his mother was the
daughter of an Italian surgeon.
Marston's Italian blood explains
some of the peculiarities of his
temperament, for, although he does
not completely illustrate the pro-
verb " Inglese Italianato e un
diavolo incarnato ", his youth was
wild and unbridled. He was
educated at Brasenose College,
Oxford, where he graduated B.A.
in 1594. He began his literary
career as a poet and satirist, and
then took to the composition of
plays. He did not write anything
for the stage after 1607, and at
some unknown date, probably about
1608 or 1609, he took holy orders.
In 1616 he w r as presented to the
living of Christ church, in Hamp-
shire, which he resigned in 1631.
His plays were published in 1633,
and he died in the following year.
The Metamorphosis of Pygma-
liotfs Image: and certain Satires
appeared in 1598, and The Scourge
of Villany (satires) later in the same
year. In the later book Marston
states that the earlier one was
intended to discredit not to ex-
emplify indecent writing, but Arch-
bishop Whitgift, who was taking
no chances, ordered both works
to be burnt. Antonio and Mellida,
an ill - constructed and bombastic
tragedy in two parts, was published
in 1602. The Malcontent, a better
but far from perfect play, appeared
in 1604. It was dedicated to Ben
Jonson, and was probably intended
as a peace-offering after one of the
many quarrels between the two
dramatists. The Dutch Courtesan
(1605) is a coarse but lively comedy.
Eastward Ho! (i 605) in which Jonson
and Chapman collaborated, is a
splendid play, and contains one
of the best pictures of city life in
all Elizabethan drama. Marston's
exact share in it is unknown and
unknowable. It nearly got its
authors into serious trouble (see
Jonson). Parasitaster, or the Fawn
(1606) is a good comedy; Sopho-
nisba (1606) a feeble and melo-
dramatic tragedy. What You Will
(1607) borrowed the sub -title of
Twelfth Night, but has none of the
charm of the Shakespearean comedy.
Other plays in which Marston had
a share are: The Insatiate Countess
(probably in part the work of
William Barksteed), Jack Drum's
Entertainment, and Histriomastix.
Marston can hardly be classed
among the greater Elizabethan
dramatists. He had, without doubt,
very great abilities, but he did not
make the most of them. Fustian
language and uncertainty of taste
mar much of his work, though now
and again short passages and single
lines occur which completely dis-
arm the most querulous critic.
Marston had no high opinion of his
own work, and said of it: " He that
thinks worse of my rhymes than
myself, I scorn him, for he cannot;
he that thinks better is a fool."
He dedicated his early satires " To
everlasting oblivion" and "To his
most esteemed and best beloved
Selfe". In leaving the stage for the
JOHN MARSTON
t he showed that the days of The War of the Theatres:, R. A.
r outh were over, and that his Small, The Stage-Quarrel between
bent did not lie in dramatic Ken Jomon and ike so-called Poet-
josition. asters; A, C. Swinburne, The Age
, H. Bullen, The Works of of Sh<ikt>sl>farc\ M. S. Allen, The
Manton\ J. H. Penniman, Satire oj John Alarslon.]
Antonio's Revenge
The Prologue
The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps
The fluent summer's vein: and driscxling sleet
Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth,
Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juicclcss leaves
From the naked shuddering branch, and pills the skin
From off the soft and delicate aspects.
0, now methinks a sullen tragic scene
Would suit the time with pleasing congruence!
May we be happy in our weak devoir,
And all part pleased in most wish'd content.
But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget
So blest an issue. Therefore we proclaim,
If any spirit breathes within this round
Uncapable of weighty passion,
(As from his birth being hugged in the arms
And nuzzled 'twixt the breasts of Happiness)
Who winks and shuts his apprehension up
From common sense of what men were, and are;
Who would not know what men must be: let such
Hurry amain from our black- visagecl shows;
We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast,
Nail'd to the earth with grief; if any heart,
Pierced through with anguish, pant within this ring;
If there be any blood, whose heat is choked
And stifled with true sense of misery:
If aught of these strains fill this consort up,
They arrive most welcome, O, that our power
Could lacky or keep wing with our desires ;
That with unused poise of style and sense
We might weigh massy in judicious scale!
Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes:
When our scenes falter, or invention halts,
Your favour will give crutches to our faults.
JOHN MARSTON 219
From u Tlie Insatiate Countess "
(ISABELLA (the countess), after a long seiies of crimes of infidelity
to her husband and of murder, is brought to suffer on a scaffold.
ROBERTO, her husband, arrives to take a last leave of her.)
ROBERTO
Bear record, all you blessed saints in heaven,
I come not to torment thee in thy death;
For of himself he's terrible enough.
But call to mind a lady like yourself,
And think how ill in such a beauteous soul,
Upon the instant morrow of her nuptials,
Apostasy and wild revolt would show,
Withal imagine that she had a lord
Jealous the air should ravish her chaste looks;
Doting, like the Creator in his models,
Who views them every minute and with care
Mix*d in his fear of their obedience to him.
Suppose he sung through famous Italy,
More common than the looser songs of Petrarch,
To every several zany's instrument:
And he poor wretch, hoping some better fate
Might call her back from her adulterate purpose,
Lives in obscure and almost unknown life;
Till hearing that she is condemn'd to die,
For he once loved her, lends his pined corpse
Motion to bring him to her stage of honour,
Where, drown' d in woe at her so dismal chance,
He clasps her: thus he falls into a trance.
ISABELLA
my offended lord, lift up your eyes;
But yet avert them from my loathed sight.
Had I with you enjoy'd the lawful pleasure,
To which belongs nor fear nor public shame,
1 might have lived in honour, died in fame.
Your pardon on my faltering knees I beg;
Which shall confirm more peace unto my death,
Than all the grave instructions of the Church.
JOHN MARSTON
ROHHRTO
Freely thou hast it. Farewell, my Isabella;
Let thy death ransom thy soul, O die a rare example.
The kiss thou gavest me in the church, here take:
As I leave thcc, so thou the world forsake, [Exit.
EXECUTIONER
Madam, tic up your hair.
ISABELLA
these golden nets,
That have ensnared so many wanton youths!
Not one, but has been held a thread of life,
And superstitiously depended on,
What else?
EXECUTIONER
Madam, I must entreat you blind your eyes,
ISABELLA
1 have lived too long in darkness, my friend:
And yet mine eyes with their majestic light
Have got new Muses in a poet's spright.
They've been more gazed at than the god of day;
Their brightness never could be flattered:
Yet thou command'st a fixed cloud of lawn
To eclipse eternally these minutes of light.
I am prepared.
From " What You Will "
I was a scholar: seven useful springs
Did I deflower in quotations
Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man;
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I bauscd leaves,
Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept.
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
JOHN MARSTON
221
Shrunk up my veins: and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw
Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima\
Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold; at that
They're at brain-buffets, fell by the ears amain
Pell-mell together: still my spaniel slept.
Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fix'd,
Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will
Or no, hot philosophers
Stood banding factions, all so strongly propp'd,
I s tagger M, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observed, and pryed,
Stuff 'd noting-books: and still my spaniel slept.
At length he waked, and yawn'd; and by yon sky,
For aught I know he knew as much as I.
THOMAS DEKKER
(? 1570-1641)
WE know little about the life of
Thomas Dekker except what we
learn from his works. It is unlikely
that he was a University man; it is
certain that he was almost always
short of money, and that his enor-
mous output of plays and pam-
phlets was primarily due to sheer
impecuniosity. We also know that
in all his misfortunes he retained
a singularly happy outlook; his
humanity, in the broadest sense of
that word, is second only to that of
Shakespeare; in his attitude to
everything mercy seasons justice.
He was a man who had an infinitesi-
mal capacity for taking pains with
his work; he was often slipshod,
and very often worked in col-
laboration. It is impossible to
mention all Dekker 's numerous
plays, nor is it necessary to enume-
rate those which, owing to War-
burton's cook or some act of God,
have not been preserved. Old
Fortunatus (1600) is a pleasant
retelling of an old story, and is
among the besi plays of Dekker.
The Shoemaker's Holiday is a very
amusing play dealing with citizen
life; it is founded on The Gentle
Craft of Deloney (q.v.). Satiro-
mastix (1602), which was written
in collaboration with Marston, is
their ill - constructed but good-
tempered rejoinder to the bitter
attack which Jonson had made upon
them in the Poetaster. Jonson and
Dekker had formerly collaborated
in two lost plays, Page of Plymouth
and Robert the Second, and their
literary partnership may have led
222
THOMAS DEKKER
to a certain amount of animosity,
which is not rare in the case of such
partnerships . Patient Grissill ( 1 603 ) ,
written with Chettle and Haughton,
is a good but not a masterly version
of the story told by the Clerk of
Oxford, The Honest Whore (1604),
which has a second part not printed
until 1630 but probably written
much earlier, contains some of
Dekker's strongest and most sym-
pathetic work. Northward Ho
(1607), Westward Ho, and The
Famous History of Sir Thomas
Wyat were written in collaboration
with Webster; the first two are a
pair of citizen comedies, and the
last-named an invertebrate play
which survives only in a mutilated
text. Dekker collaborated with
Middleton in The Roaring Girl
(1611), and with Massinger in The
Virgin Martyr. If it be not good,
the Devil is in it is a sample of his
unaided work at its worst. The
Whore of Babylon is more remark-
able for its extreme Protestantism
than for any literary qualities.
Other plays are: Match me in London
(1631); The Wonder of a Kingdom
(1636); The Witch of Edmonton,
with Rowley and Ford; and The
Sun's Darting, a kind of masque,
with Ford. Dekker's non-dramatic
writings are also very numerous.
The Wonderful Year (1603) gives a
Defoe-like account of the plague;
The Bachelor's Banquet is an ex-
cellent and amusing pamphlet;
News from Hell, The Seven Deadly
Sins of London, and The Bellman of
London are vivacious tracts. The
most famous of Dekker's prose
writings is perhaps The Gull's
Hornbook, a kind of ironical book
of etiquette. All Dekker's pam-
phlets arc simply invaluable for the
light which they throw upon the
manners and customs of the time
though they must be used with
caution as " documents " on ac-
count of their satirical exaggeration
Dekker showed his versatility by
writing a very beautiful collection
of prayers, Four Birds of Noah's
Ark (1609). The worthless poem
Canaan's Calamity, etc. (1598),
with which Dekker was long dis-
credited, is now known to be the
work of Thomas Deloney, who
shared Dekker's initials.
Thomas Dekker had the lightest
heart and the lightest purse of all
the Elizabethan dramatists. He
was a Londoner through and
through; a parallel may be drawn
between Dekker and Dickens, who
resemble each other at least as
much as Monmouth and Maccdon.
Dekker had an enormous gust
for life, and an ability to extract
humour from anything. When he
crossed swords with" Jonson, his
skilfully manipulated rapier was
more than a match for Jonson's
two-handed engine. As Charles
Lamb said, " Dekker had poetry
enough for anything "; as well as
this^ gift of poetry he had a gift of
realism, the two making a striking
combination. His lyrics are among
the best of those written in that
great age.
[R, H. Shepherd, Dramatic Works
of Thomas Dekker, A. B. Grosart,
Non-Dramatic Works of Thomas
Dekker, A. C. Swinburne, The Age
of Shakespeare; M. L. Hunt,
Thomas Dekker, a Study.]
THOMAS DEKKER 223
Old Fortunatus
(The Goddess FORTUNE appears to FORTUNATUS, and offers him the
choice of six things. He chooses Riches.)
FORTUNE
Before thy soul at this deep lottery
Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny,
Know that here's no recanting a first choice.
Choose then discreetly: for the laws of fate,
Being graven in steel, must stand inviolate.
FORTUNATUS
Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd Night,
Most righteous Parcas, guide my genius right:
V^isdom, Strength, Health, Beauty, Long Life, and Riches,
FORTUNE
Stay, Fortunatus; once more hear me speak.
If thou kiss Wisdom's cheek and make her thine,
She'll breathe into thy lips divinity,
And thou (like Phoebus) shalt speak oracle;
Thy heaven-inspired soul on Wisdom's wings
Shall fly up to the Parliament of Jove,
And read the Statutes of Eternity,
And see what's past and learn what is to come.
If thou lay claim to Strength, armies shall quake
To see thee frown: as kings at mine do lie,
So shall thy feet trample on empery.
Make Health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof
'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting,
Be ever merry, ever revelling.
Wish but for Beauty, and within thine eyes
Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim,
And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and red,
That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede,
And with immortal arms shall circle thee.
Are thy desires Long Life? thy vital thread
Shall be stretch'd out; thou shalt behold the change
Of monarchies, and see those children die
Whose great great grandsires now in cradles He.
THOMAS DEKKER
rr\
If through Gold's sacred hunger thou dost pine;
Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run
To warm their slender bodies in the sun,
Shall stand for number of those golden piles
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet;
As those arc, so shall these be infinite.
FORTUNATUS
O, whither am I rapt beyond myself?
More violent conflicts fight in every thought
Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought.
Shall I contract myself to Wisdom's love?
Then I lose Riches; and a wise man poor
Is like a sacred book that's never read;
To himself he lives and to all else seems dead.
This age thinks better of a gilded fool,
Than of a threadbare saint in Wisdom's school.
I will be Strong: then I refuse Long Life;
And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds,
There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors:
The greatest strength expires with loss of breath,
The mightiest in one minute stoop to death.
Then take Long Life, or Health; should I do so,
I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll
Of months and years much misery may enroll:
Therefore I'll beg for Beauty; yet I will not:
The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul
Leprous as sin itself, than hell more foul.
The Wisdom of this world is idiotism;
Strength a weak reed; Health Sickness' enemy,
And it at length will have the victory.
Beauty is but a painting; and Long Life
Is a long journey in December gone,
Tedious and full of tribulation .
Therefore, dread sacred empress, make me rich:
My choice is Store of Gold; the rich arc wise:
He that upon his back rich garments wears
Is wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears.
Gold is the strength, the sinews of the world,
The health, the soul, the beauty most divine;
A mask of gold hides all deformities;
Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative;
0, therefore make me rich!
THOMAS DEKKER 225
The Gull's Hornbook
CHAP. VI
How a gallant should behave himself in a playhouse
The theatre is your poets' Royal Exchange, upon which their muses,
that are now turned to merchants, meeting, barter away that light com-
modity of words for a lighter ware than words ; plaudiles, and the breath
of the great beast; which, like the threatenings of two cowards, vanish
all into air. Players and their factors, who put away the stufY, and make
the best of it they possibly can, as indeed 'tis their parts so to do, your
gallant, your courtier, and your captain had wont to be the soundest
paymasters; and, I think, are still the surest chapmen: and these, by
means that their heads are well stocked, deal upon this comical freight
by the gross; when your groundling, and gallery-commoner buys his sport
by the penny; and, like a haggler, is glacl to utter it again by retailing.
Since then the place is so free in entertainment, allowing a stool as
well to the farmer's son as to your templar: that your stinkard has the
selfsame liberty to be there in his tobacco-fumes, which your sweet
courtier hath; and that your carman and tinker claim as strong a voice
in their suffrage, and sit to give judgment on the play's life and death,
as well as the proudest Momus among the tribes of critic: it is fit that lie,
whom the most tailors' bills do make room for, when he comes, should
not be basely, like a viol, cased up in a corner.
Whether therefore the gatherers of the public or private playhouse
stand to receive the afternoon's rent; let our gallant, having paid it,
presently advance himself up to the throne of the stage; I mean not
into the lords' room, which is now but the stage's suburbs; no; those
boxes, by the iniquity of custom, conspiracy of waiting-women and
gentlemen-ushers that there sweat together, and the covctousncss of
sharers, are contemptibly thrust into the rear; and much new satin is
there damned, by being smothered to death in darkness. But on the
very rushes where the comedy is to dance, yea, and under the state of
Cambyses himself, must our feathered ostrich, like a piece of ordnance,
be planted valiantly, because impudently, beating down the mews and
hisses of the opposed rascality.
For do but cast up a reckoning; what large comings-ill are pursed
up^by sitting on the stage? First a conspicuous eminence is gotten; by
which means, the best and most essential parts of a gallant's good clothes
a proportionable leg, white hand, the Parisian lock, and a tolerable beard,
are perfectly revealed.
By sitting on the stage, you have signed patent to engross the whole
VOL. ii
39
226 THOMAS DEKKER
commodity of censure, may lawfully presume to be a girder, and stand
at the helm to steer the passage of scenes; yet no man shall once offer
to hinder you from obtaining the title of an insolent, over-weening cox-
comb.
By sitting on the stage, you may, without travelling for it, at the
very next door ask whose play it is; and, by that quest of inquiry, the
law warrants you to avoid much mistaking; if you know not the author
you may rail against him; and pcradventure so behave yourself, that you
may enforce the author to know you.
By sitting on the stage, if you be a knight, you may happily get you
a mistress; if a mere Fleet-street gentleman, a wife; but assure yourself,
by continual residence, you are the first and principal man in election to
begin the number of cc We three."
By spreading your body on the stage, and by being a justice in exam-
ining of plays, you shall put yourself into such true sccnical authority,
that some poet shall not dare to present his muse rudely upon your
eyes, without having first unmasked her, rifled her, and discovered all
her bare and most mystical parts before you at a tavern; when you
most knightly shall, for his pains, pay for both their suppers.
By sitting on the stage, you may, with small cost, purchase the dear
acquaintance of the boys; have a good stool for sixpence; at any time
know what particular part any of the infants represent; get your match
lighted; examine the play-suits' lace, and perhaps win wagers upon laying
'tis copper; etc. And to conclude; whether you be a fool, or a justice
of peace; a cuckold, or a captain; a lord-mayor's son, or a dawcock; a
knave, or an under-sheriff; of what stamp soever you be; current, or
counterfeit; the stage, like time, will bring you to most perfect light,
and lay you open. Neither are you to be hunted from thence; though
the scarecrows in the yard hoot at you, hiss at you, spit at you, yea, throw
dirt even in your teeth; 'tis most gentlemanlike patience to endure all
this, and to laugh at the silly animals. But if the rabble, with a full throat,
cry: " Away with the fool!" you were worse than a madman to tarry by
it; for the gentleman, and the fool should never sit on the stage together.
Marry; let this observation go hand in hand with the rest; or rather,
like a country serving-man, some five yards before them. Present not
yourself on the stage, especially at a new play, until the quaking Pro-
logue hath by rubbing got colour into his checks, and is ready to give
the trumpets their cue that he is upon point to enter; for then it is time,
as though you were one of the properties, or that you dropped out of
the hangings^ to creep from behind the arras, with your tripos or three-
footed stool in one hand, and a teston mounted between a forefinger
and a thumb in the other; for, if you should bestow your person upon
the vulgar, when the belly of the house is but half full, your apparel is
quite eaten up, the fashion lost;, and the proportion of your body is in
THOMAS DEKKER 227
more danger to be devoured than if it were served up in the Counter
amongst the poultry: avoid that as you would the bastone. It shall crown
you with rich commendation, to laugh aloud in the midst of the most
serious and saddest scene of the terriblest tragedy; and to let that clapper,
your tongue, be tossed so high, that all the house may ring of it: your
lords use it; your knights are apes to the lords, and do so too; your
inn-a-court man is zany to the knights, and (many very scurvily)
comes likewise limping after it: be thou a beagle to them all, and
never lin snuffing till you have scented them: for by talking and
laughing, like a ploughman in a morris, you heap Pelion upon Ossa,
glory upon glory; as first, all the eyes in the galleries will leave walking
after the players, and only follow you; the simplest dolt in the house
snatches up your name, and, when he meets you in the streets, or that
you fall into his hands in the middle of a watch, his word shall be taken
for you; he will cry "he's such a gallant," and you pass: secondly, you
publish your temperance to the world, in that you seem not to resort
thither to taste vain pleasures with a hungry appetite; but only as
a gentleman to spend a foolish hour or two, because you can do
nothing else: thirdly, you mightily disrelish the audience, and disgrace
the author: Marry; you take up, though it be at the worst hand,
a strong opinion of your own judgment, and enforce the poet to take pity
of your weakness, and, by some dedicated sonnet, to bring you into a
better paradise, only to stop your mouth.
Content
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O, sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O, punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O, sweet content!
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O, punishment!
228
THOMAS DEKKER
Then he that patiently want's burden hears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O, sweet content! 0, sweet, O, sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!
(From Patient GrissiL]
Lullaby
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby,
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby;
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
(From Patient Grissil.)
THOMAS HEYWOOD
(? 1572
THOMAS HEYWOOD was a Lincoln-
shire man of fairly good family, and
was educated at Cambridge. The
unsupported tradition which made
him a fellow of Peterhouse has been
repudiated even by the late master
of that college, Sir A. W. Ward.
Heywood himself tells us that he
had " either an entire hand or at
the least a main finger" in two
hundred and twenty plays. This
gigantic total is not quite so
astonishing when we remember
that his dramatic career stretched
over at least thirty-seven years, so
that he wrote on an average half
a dozen plays a year, a notable but
not an incredible feat. Only about
twenty-four of his plays remain.
As may be easily imagined, Heywood
wrote without great effort, and was
a popular entertainer rather than
an artist. He is said to have written
his plays on the backs of tavern-
bills (which would account for the
loss of many of them) and to have
THOMAS HEYWOOD
229
demanded from himself a daily
ration of so many words, a plan
similar to that adopted by Anthony
Trollope in mid- Victorian days.
One of the earliest of Hey wood's
plays is The Four Prentices of
London, a crude type of historical
farrago, which perhaps may be
dated as early as 1594. Edward IV,
an historical play in two parts, is
also crude, but has some good
passages. If You know not me You
know Nobody is also an historical
drama in tw T o parts, and is of little
value. The Golden Age, The Silver
Age, The Brazen Age, and The Iron
Age (two parts) are odd miscel-
lanies of classical mythology, very
weak dramatically, but treating
certain episodes with no little skill.
Heywood's masterpiece, and the
play by which he is chiefly re-
membered, is A Woman lulled with
Kindness (1603). It is an admirably
constructed drama of domestic life,
full of pathos and realism of the
best kind. The Wise Woman of
Hogsdon (1604) is much less memor-
able, and The Fair Maid of the
Exchange (inaptly described on the
title page as " very delectable and
full of mirth ") is probably not by
Heywood. The Royal King and the
Loyal Subject handles an improbable
plot in a competent fashion. The
Rape of Lucrece (?i6o4) is one of the
most extraordinary hybrids ever
produced, even in that age of in-
congruities, for it is a cross between
tragedy and opera-bouffe. The
songs of Valerius, " the merry lord
among the Roman peers ", are as
out of place as a jig at a funeral.
The Fair Maid of the West (two
parts) is an attractive play with a
pleasing smack of adventure and
the sea about it, and The English
Traveller is an even better play on
somewhat similar lines, and ranks
perhaps second among Its author's
dramatic works. The Captives is
perhaps chiefly interesting because
it was discovered in 1883 by A. H.
Bullen; A Maidenhead well lost is
not a good play, nor is A Challenge
for Beauty much better. Love's
Mistress is a good rehandling of the
beautiful tale of Cupid and Psyche
which is told by the old woman in
Apuleius's Golden Ass. For a
hack-writer, Heywood did not col-
laborate frequently, but he wrote
Fortune by Land and Sea with
William Rowley, and The late
Lancashire Witches with Richard
Brome. Heywood's non-dramatic
works are numerous but not impor-
tant. His Apology for Actors (1612)
is a pleasant but not a powerful
piece of special pleading. England's
Elizabeth and rwat/cetov or Nine
Books of Various History concerning
Women do not find many readers
nowadays. Heywood's verse writ-
ings. The Hierarchy of the Blessed
Angels, &c., are negligible.
Heywood did not entertain any
exaggerated idea of the importance
of his own work, but described him-
self as " the youngest and weakest
of the nest wherein he was hatched ".
He was, however, a man of admir-
able talent, and particularly excelled
in domestic drama, in plays which
dealt with middle-class life and
everyday happenings. He was,
like Dekker, a London-lover, and
was a man of pleasing modesty and
industrious versatility. Lamb has
called him " a sort of prose Shake-
speare ", but there is a certain lack
of distinction in his work which
prevents us from completely con-
curring with this verdict.
[A. M. Clark, Thomas Heywood:
Playwright and Miscellanist.
THOMAS HEYWOOD
From a A Woman killed with Kindness"
(MR, FRANKFORD discovers ihat his Wife has been
unfaithful to him.)
MRS. FRANKFORD
0, by what words, what title, or what name
Shall I entreat your pardon? Pardon! O!
I am as far from hoping such sweet grace,
As Lucifer from heaven. To call you husband!
(0 me most wretched!) I have lost that name:
I am no more your wife.
FRANKFORD
Spare thou thy tears, for I will weep for thec;
And keep thy countenance, for I'll blush for thee.
Now, I protest, I think, 'tis I am tainted,
For I am most ashamed; and 'tis more hard
For me to look upon thy guilty face,
Than on the sun's clear brow; what wouldst thou speak?
MRS. FRANKFORD
I would I had no tongue, no ears, no eyes,
No apprehension, no capacity.
When do you spurn me like a dog? when tread me
Under feet? when drag me by the hair?
Though I deserve a thousand thousand fold
More than you can inflict: yet, once my husband,
For womanhood, to which I am a shame,
Though once an ornament; even for his sake,
That hath redeem'd our souls, mark not my face,
Nor hack me with your sword: but let me go
Perfect and undeformed to my tomb.
I am not worthy that I should prevail
In the least suit; no, not to speak to you,
Nor look on you, nor to be in your presence:
Yet as an abject this one suit I crave;
This granted, I am ready for my grave.
FRANKFORD
My God, with patience arm me! rise,' nay, rise,
And I'll debate with thee. Was it for want
THOMAS HBYWOOD
Thou play'dst the strumpet? Wast thou not supplied
With every pleasure, fashion, and new toy;
Nay, even beyond my calling?
MRS. FRANKFORD
1 was.
FRANKFORD
Was it then disability in me?
Or in thine eye seem'd he a properer man?
MRS. FRANKFORD
no.
FRANKFORD
Did not I lodge thee in my bosom?
Wear thee in my heart?
MRS. FRANKFORD
You did.
FRANKFORD
1 did indeed, witness my tears I did.
Go bring my infants hither. O Nan, O Nan;
If neither fear of shame, regard of honour,
The blemish of my house, nor my dear love,
Could have withheld thee from so lewd a fact,
Yet for these infants, these young harmless souls,
On whose white brows thy shame is character M,
And grows in greatness as they wax in years ;
Look but on them, and melt away in tears.
Away with them; lest as her spotted body
Hath stain'd their names with stripe of bastardy,
So her adulterous breath may blast their spirits
With her infectious thoughts. Away with them.
MRS. FRANKFORD
In this one life I die ten thousand deaths.
FRANKFORD
Stand up, stand up, I will do nothing rashly.
I will retire awhile into my study,
And thou shalt hear thy sentence presently. [Exit.
THOMAS HEYWOOD
(He returns with CRANWELL Iris friend. She
falls on her knees.)
FRANKFORD
My words are registered in heaven already.
With patience hear me. I'll not martyr thee,
Nor mark thee for a strumpet; but with usage
Of more humility torment thy soul,
And kill thee even with kindness.
CRANWELL
Mr. Frankford.
FRANKFORD
Good Mr. Cranwell. Woman, hear thy judgment;
Go make thee ready in thy best attire;
Take with thee all thy gowns, all thy apparel:
Leave nothing that did ever call thee mistress,
Or by whose sight, being left here in the house,
I may remember such a woman was.
Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy chamber;
Take with thee everything which hath thy mark,
And get thee to my manor seven miles oil r ;
Where live; 'tis thine, I freely give it thee:
My tenants by shall furnish thee with wains
To carry all thy stuff within two hours;
No longer will I limit thee my sight.
Choose which of all my servants thou likest best,
And they are thine to attend thee,
MRS. FRANKFORD
A mild sentence,
FRANKFORD
But as thou hopest for heaven, as thou bclicvcst
Thy name's recorded in the book of life,
I charge thee never after this sad day
To see me or to meet me; or to send
By word, or writing, gift, or otherwise,
To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends;
Nor challenge any part in my two children.
So farewell, Nan; for we will henceforth be
As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see.
THOMAS HEYWOOD 233
MRS. FRANKFORD
How full my heart is, in mine eyes appears;
What wants in words, I will supply in tears.
FRANKFORD
Come, take your coach, your stuff; all must along;
Servants and all make ready, all be gone.
It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one.
(MRS. FRANKFORD (dying). SIR FRANCIS ACTON (her brother}. SIR
CHARLES MOUNTFORD, MR. MALBY, and other of her husband's
friends.)
FRANKFORD (entering)
How do you, woman?
MRS. FRANKFORD
Well, Mr. Frankford, well; but shall be better
I hope within this hour. Will you vouchsafe
(Out of your grace and your humanity)
To take a spotted strumpet by the hand?
FRANKFORD
This hand once held my heart in faster bonds
Than now 'tis griped by me. God pardon them
That made us first break hold.
MRS. FRANKFORD
Amen, amen.
Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now bound,
I was so impudent to wish you here;
And once more beg your pardon. 0! good man,
And father to my children, pardon me.
Pardon, O pardon me: my fault so heinous is,
That if you in this world forgive it not,
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come.
Faintness hath so usurp 'd upon my knees
That kneel I cannot: but on my heart's knees
My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet
To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, O pardon me!
THOMAS HEYWOOD
FRANKFQRD
As freely from the low depth of my soul
As my Redeemer hath for us given his death,
I pardon thee; I will shed tears for thec;
Pray with thee :
And, in mere pity of thy weak estate,
I'll wish to die with thee.
ALL
So do we all.
FRANKFORD
Even as I hope for pardon at that day,
When the great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits,
So be thou pardon'd. Though thy rash offence
Divorced our bodies, thy repentant tears
Unite our souls.
CHARLES
Then comfort, mistress Frankford;
You see your husband hath forgiven your fall;
Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul,
SUSAN
How is it with you?
ACTON
How d'ye feel yourself?
MRS. FRANKFORD
Not of this world,
FRANKFORD
I see you are not, and I weep to see it.
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes;
Both those lost names I do restore thec back,
And with this kiss I wed thee once again:
Though thou art wounded in thy honour 'd name,
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest;
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou cliest.
MRS. FRANKFORD
Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free
Once more. Thy wife dies thus embracing thee.
THOMAS HEYWOOD
235
Pack, Clouds ? Away
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow.
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft
To give my love good morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow,
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair love good morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND
JOHN FLETCHER
( Beaumont, 1584 - 1616; Fletcher, 1579 - 1625 )
FRANCIS BEAUMONT was the third
son of Francis Beaumont, a judge
of the common pleas, and was born
at Grace-Dieu, Leicestershire, in
1584. He was educated at Broad-
gates Hall (now Pembroke College),
Oxford, but did not graduate, and
was entered a member of the Inner
Temple in 1600. When eighteen
years of age he wrote a not very
promising Ovidian poem, Salmacis
and Hermaphroditus. He soon
became an intimate friend of Ben
Jonson, who may have introduced
him to John Fletcher. Fletcher was
a son of Dr. Richard Fletcher, who
was Dean of Peterborough at the
time of the execution of Mary,
Queen of Scots; who was in turn
Bishop of Bristol, Worcester, and
London, and who had died in 1596
from the combined ill-effects of a
misalliance and an overindulgence
in tobacco, whose protomartyr he
236 FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
may claim to be. John Fletcher
was born at Rye, in Sussex, and was
educated at Bene't (Corpus) Col-
lege, Cambridge, where he was
bible-clerk, Beaumont and Fletcher
first met in 1607 or thereabouts,
and soon became the closest of
friends; they lived together in a
house in Southwark, and arc said
to have had their clothes and yet
more intimate possessions in com-
mon. This close companionship
lasted for only some six years, when
Beaumont married, and probably
went to live in the country. In 1616
Beaumont died, and was buried in
Westminster Abbey. Very little is
known of Fletcher's life after he
lost his partner; he died of the
plague in 1625, and was buried at
St. Saviour's, Southwark.
Beaumont and Fletcher have been
aptly called the great twin brethren
of Jacobean drama. In some
respects they stand apart from their
fellow-dramatists. They were both
of gentle birth, and Beaumont at
any rate was in easy circumstances
and probably shared his affluence
with his friend. So close was their
partnership that their earliest editor
wrote in 1647: " It was once in my
thoughts to have printed Mr,
Fletcher's works by themselves,
because, single and alone, he would
make a just volume; but since
never parted while they lived, I
conceived it not equitable to sepa-
rate their ashes." It is probably a
shock to most readers when they
learn that comparatively few of the
fifty-odd plays which comprise the
enormous corpus dramaticum tra-
ditionally bearing the name of
" Beaumont and Fletcher " are the
work of the " Dioscuri of English
drama ". The truth is that " Beau-
mont and Fletcher " became a kind
of formula; even so early as 1619
we find Jonson speaking of a play
as by " Flcsher and Beaumont ";
a eulogistic poem addressed to
Fletcher makes it quite clear that
Jonson knew that Beaumont had
no hand in this particular play,
The Faithful Shepherdess. It is now
believed that only about nine of
the plays (some of these, however,
among the best) are written by
Beaumont and Fletcher; two are
the work of Beaumont alone; fifteen
are the work of Fletcher alone;
some eighteen are by Fletcher and
Massinger; some four are by
Fletcher and some other colla-
borator; and in, live or six neither
Beaumont nor Fletcher had any
appreciable share. All these figures
are to be received with caution, as
doctors (designate and otherwise)
differ with some violence about the
authorship of many of the plays.
It is usually thought or repeated
that Fletcher contributed the wit
and Beaumont the judgment to the
plays which they wrote together,
and that Beaumont's function was
to act as a kind of brake upon
Fletcher's runaway genius (" Suf-
flamlnandits erat, as Augustus said
of Hatcrius "). We know much
more about Fletcher's work than
we do about Beaumont's; but this
idea is probably wrong, or at any
rate requires very considerable
modification. We do know that
Beaumont, though a man of higher
seriousness (tnrovfauQTGpo^) than his
partner, had the complementary
gift of excelling in burlesque or
mock-heroic writing; that line skit
The Knight of the Burning Pestle
is probably his unaided work.
Fletcher's fluent and facile genius
excelled in comedy or tragi-comedy
rather than tragedy; he had a great
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER 237
gift for writing lyrics beautiful
songs unequalled by any save those
of Shakespeare. Of all the plays
The Maid's Tragedy, really by
Beaumont and Fletcher, is the most
famous; Bonduca (Fletcher and
someone else) is a fine tragedy
based on early British history;
Philaster (mainly Beaumont) is a
good tragi-comedy resembling Cym-
beline\ while of the comedies none
is better than The Wild-Goose
Chase (Fletcher alone). It is said
of this play that, notwithstanding
his innate modesty, the author,
when he saw it performed, could
not forbear to join in the general
applause. Other plays which are
of outstanding merit are: A King
and no King (Beaumont and
Fletcher); Valentinian (Fletcher
alone); Fletcher's supremely beau-
tiful pastoral play The Faithful
Shepherdess] The Woman's Prize
(Fletcher), a pleasing sequel to
The Taming of the Shrew; Sir John
van Olden Barnavelt (Fletcher and
Massinger), acted in August, 1619,
and founded on the events of the
previous May; The Beggars* Bush
(Fletcher and Massinger); and
The Elder Brother (Fletcher and
Massinger), But indeed in all the
other plays, which are too numerous
to mention, a very high standard of
competence is maintained. Fletcher
wrote a considerable part of Henry
VIII, and there is little doubt that
Shakespeare had a hand or at least
a finger in The Two Noble Kinsmen.
It cannot be said that the innumer-
able problems connected with the
authorship of the " Beaumont and
Fletcher " plays have been solved
or even treated satisfactorily. Mas-
singer was, apparently, Fletcher's
chief partner; but Fletcher also
collaborated with William Rowley,
Field, Tourneur, Jonson, and Da-
borne, and Shirley seems to have
further complicated the issue by
revising several of the fifty-odd
plays. In dealing with these matters,
several editors appear to rely too
much on their inner consciousness.
It is hard to separate into its com-
ponent parts the work of two such
close friends and partners so close
that they might have written " Je
somrnes ", as an irreverent French-
man did in another connexion.
The Beaumont and Fletcher
plays are good in passages, and
must have been most effective on
the stage. Fletcher, in particular,
was a master of stage-craft. They
never hang fire, and have plenty
of incident and plot in them, in that
respect comparing most favourably
with the work of Jonson and his
school. In many cases two stories
are combined to form one play,
lest the interest should ever flag.
There is, however, an incoherence
and a fatal fluency about these
plays, and what is worse, they be-
tray a defect of moral vision.
Shakespeare's comedy was the full
round comedy of life; Fletcher's is
the thin, flat comedy of intrigue.
The characters of Beaumont and
Fletcher are fleeting shades, who
have not drunk of the blood of life,
and therefore lead a shadowy exis-
tence. And yet in many ways
"Beaumont and Fletcher" stand
next to Shakespeare among con-
temporary dramatists. Jonson and
Marlowe are writers of heavier
metal; Beaumont and Fletcher are
"metal more attractive' 1 . In a
famous passage Fuller has com-
pared Jonson to a Spanish galleon
and Shakespeare to an English
man-of-war; Beaumont and Flet-
cher may be likened to a yacht,
238 FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
with "Youth on the prow and Francis Beaumont; 0. L. Hatcher,
Pleasure at the helm ". John Fletcher, a study in dramatic
[Editions by A. H. Bullcn, and method; A. II. Thorndike, The
by A. Glover and A. R. Waller; Influence of Beaumont and Fletcher
G. C. Macaulay, Francis Beaumont, on Shakespeare] E. H. Oliphant,
a critical study, C. M. Gayley, The Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher]
Song from a Tlie Maid's Tragedy"
Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
From "The Two Noble Kinsmen
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, first-born child of Vcr,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Mangolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim.
All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER 239
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pie,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
Invocation to Sleep
From " Valentinian "
Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince ; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride !
From "The Queen of Corinth"
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan;
Sorrow calls no time that's gone;
Violets plucked the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again ;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see;
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.
From "The Nice Valour"
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;
24 o FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten M to the ground,
A tongue chain 'd up without u sound!
Fountain heads and. pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
Philaster; or. Love Lies a-Bleeding
(PHILASTER tells the Princess ARETIIUSA how he first
found the boy BELLARIO.)
PHILASTER
I have a boy sent by the gods,
Not yet seen in the court; hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain side,
Of which he borrow M some to quench his thirst;
And paid the nymph again as much in tears ;
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me: but ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon them, he would weep,
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story;
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland and did show,
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify; and how all ordered thus,
Express'd his grief: and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER 241
That could be wish'd, so that, methought, I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertain J d him,
Who was as glad to follow; and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy,
That ever master kept: him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.
ers BELLARIO to the service of
the Princess ARETHUSA.)
PHILASTER
And thou shalt find her honourable, boy,
Full of regard unto thy tender youth,
For thine own modesty; and for my sake,
Apter to give, than thou wilt be to ask, ay, or deserve.
BELLARIO
Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing,
And only yet am something by being yours ;
You trusted me unknown; and that which you are apt
To construe a simple innocence in me,
Perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy
Harden J d in lies and theft; yet ventured you
To part my miseries and me; for which,
I never can expect to serve a lady
That bears more honour in her breast than you.
PHILASTER
But, boy, it will prefer thee; thou art young,
And bear'st a childish overflowing love
To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet.
But when thy judgment conies to rule those passions,
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends
That place thee in the noblest way of life:
She is a princess I prefer thee to.
BELLARIO
In that small time that I have seen the world,
I never knew a man hasty to part
With a servant he thought trusty; I remember,
My father would prefer the boys he kept
To greater men than he, but did it not
Till they were grown too saucy for himself.
VOL. ii. 40
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
PlIILASTER
Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all
In thy behaviour.
BELLARIO
Sir, if I have made
A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ;
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn.
Age and experience will adorn my mind
With larger knowledge: and if I have done
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
P'or once; what master holds so strict a hand
Over his boy, that he will part with him
Without one warning? Let me be corrected
To break my stubbornness if it be so,
Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend.
PHILASTER
Thy love cloth plead so prettily to stay,
That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee.
Alas, I do not turn thee off; thou knowest
It is my business that doth call thee hence,
And when thou art with her thou dwell'st with me:
Think so, and 'tis so; and when time is full,
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust,
Laid on so weak a one, I will again
With joy receive thee; as I live, I will;
Nay, weep not, gentle boy ; 'tis more than time
Thou didst attend the princess.
BELLARIO
I am gone;
But since I am to part with you, my lord,
And none knows whether I shall live to do
More service for you, take this little prayer;
Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs,
May sick men, if they have your wish, be well;
And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one.
(BELLARIO describes to the Princess ARETHUSA the manner of
his master PHILASTER'S love for her.)
ARETHUSA
Sir, you are sad to change your service, is't not so?
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER 243
BELLARIO
Madam, I have not changed: I wait on you,
To do him service.
ARETHUSA
Thou disclaim 'st in me;
Tell me thy name.
BELLARIO
Bellario.
ARETHUSA
Thou canst sing and play?
BELLARIO
If grief will give me leave, madam, I can.
ARETHUSA
Alas! what kind of grief can thy years know?
Hadst thou a curst master when thou went'st to school?
Thou art not capable of any other grief;
Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be,
When no breath troubles them: believe me, boy.
Care seeks out w r rinkled brows, and hollow eyes,
And builds himself caves to abide in them.
Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me?
BELLARIO
Love, madam? I know not what it is.
ARETHUSA
Canst thou know r grief, and never yet knew'st love?
Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me
As if he wish'd me well?
BELLARIO
If it be love,
To forget all respect of his own friends,
In thinking of your face; if it be love,
To sit cross-arm'd and sigh aw r ay the day,
Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud
And hastily, as men in the streets do fire;
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
If it be love to weep himself away,
When he but hears of any lady dead,
Or kill'd, because it might have been your chance;
If when he goes to rest (which will not be)
Twixt every prayer he says to name you once,
As others drop a head, be to be in love;
Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you,
ARKTHUSA
you are a cunning boy, and taught to He
For your lord's credit; but thou know'st a lie
That bears this sound, is welcomer to me
Than any truth that says he loves me not.
(PIIILASTER is jealous o/ BELLARIO with iJie Princess.) -
BELLARIO
Health to you, my lord;
The princess doth commend her love, her life,
And this unto you.
PIIILASTER
Bellario,
Now I perceive she loves me, she does show it
In loving thee, my boy; she has made thee brave.
BELLARIO
My lord, she has attired me past my wish,
Past my desert, more fit for her attendant,
Though far unfit for me who do attend.
PHILASTER
Thou art grown courtly, boy. let all women
That love black deeds learn to dissemble here.
Here by this paper she does write to rnc
As if her heart were mines of adamant
To all the world besides, but unto me
A maiden snow that melted with my looks.
Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee?
For I shall guess her love to me by that.
BELLARIO
Scarce like her servant, but as if I were
Something allied to her; or had preserved
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Her life three times by my fidelity;
As mothers fond do use their only sons ;
As I'd use one that's left unto my trust,
For whom my life should pay if he met harm,
So she does use me.
PHILASTER
Why this is wondrous well:
But what kind language does she feed thee with?
BELLARIO
Why, she does tell me, she will trust my youth
With all her loving secrets, and does call me
Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more
For leaving you; she'll see my services
Regarded: and such words of that soft strain,
That I am nearer weeping when she ends
Than ere she spake.
PHILASTER
This is much better still.
BELLARIO
Are you ill, my lord?
PHILASTER
111? No, Bellario.
BELLARIO
Methinks your words
Fall not from off your tongue so evenly,
Nor is there in your looks that quietness,
That I was wont to see.
PHILASTER
Thou art deceived, boy. And she strokes thy head?
BELLARIO
PHILASTER
And she does clap thy cheeks?
BELLARIO
She does, my lord.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
PmiASTKR
And she docs kiss thee, boy, lui?
BKUJVUIO
I low, my lord?
She kisses thec?
BKLLAUIO
Not so, my lord,
Come, come, 1 know she does.
BKLLARIO
No, by my life,
Ay now I sec why my disturbed thoughts
Were so perplexed when first I went to her;
My heart held augury. You are abused,
Some villain has abused yon; 1 do see
Whereto you tend; fall rocks upon his head,
That put this to you; 'tis some subtle train
To bring that noble frame of yours to naught,
PHILASTBR
Thou think 'st I will be angry with thee. Come,
Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate her more,
Than I love happiness, and placed thee there
To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds*
Hast thou discover'd? is she fallen to lust,
As I would wish her? Speak some comfort to me
BELLAMO
My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent:
Had she a sin that way, hid from the world,
I would not aid
Her base desires; but what I came to know
As servant to her, I would not reveal,
To make my life last ages.
PHILASTER
O my heart!
This is a salve worse than the main disease.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER 247
Tell me thy thoughts; for I will know the least
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart
To know it; I will see thy thoughts as plain
As I do know thy face.
BELLARIO
Why, so you do.
She is (for aught I know), by all the gods,
As chaste as ice; but were she foul as hell.
And I did know it, thus; the breath of kings,
The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass,
Should draw it from me.
PHILASTER
Then It is no time
To dally with thee; I will take thy life,
For I do hate thee; I could curse thee now.
BELLARIO
If you do hate, you could not curse me worse;
The gods have not a punishment in store
Greater for me than is your hate.
PHILASTER
Fie, fie,
So young and so dissembling! fear'st thou not death?
Can boys contemn that?
BELLARIO
0, what boy is he
Can be content to live to be a man,
That sees the best of men thus passionate,
Thus without reason?
PHILASTER
0, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die.
BELLARIO
Yes, I do know, my lord!
'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep,
A quiet resting from all jealousy;
A thing we all pursue; I know besides
It is but giving over of a game
That must be lost.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
PIIILASTKR
But there are pains, false boy,
For perjured souls; think but on these, and then
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all.
BELLAMO
May they fall all upon me whilst I live,
If I be perjured, or have ever thought,
Of that you charge me with; if I be false,
Send me to suffer in those punishments
You speak of; kill me,
PHILASTKR
0, what should I do?
Why, who can but believe him? lie does swear
So earnestly, that if it were not true,
The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario;
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou
Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them,
That though I know them false, as were my hopes,
I cannot urge thec further; but thou wcrt
To blame to injure me, for I must love
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon
Thy tender youth: a love from me to thec
Is firm whatever thou dost: it troubles me
That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks,
That did so well become thee: but, good boy,
Let me not see thee more; something is clone
That will distract me, that will make me mad,
If I behold thee; if thou tender'st me,
Let me not see thee.
BELLARIO
I will fly as far
As there is morning, ere I give distaste
To that most honour'd mind. But through these tears,
Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see
A world of treason practised upon you,
And her, and me. Farewell for evermore;
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead,
And after find me loyal, let there be
A tear shed from you in my memory,
And I shall rest at peace.
BENJAMIN JONSON
249
BENJAMIN JONSON
(1572-1637)
BENJAMIN JONSON, usually during
his lifetime and now invariably
called " Ben ", was born at West-
minster in 1572. His father, who,
after being a sufferer in the Marian
persecution, had become a minister,
died before Ben was born, leaving
his wife in straitened circumstances.
Jonson was educated at West-
minster School, owing, it is be-
lieved, to the kindness of Camden,
who at that time was an assistant-
master there. It is a pious article
of belief that Jonson continued his
studies at St. John's College, Cam-
bridge, but there is no actual proof
of this, and if he w r as in residence
at all, it can only have been for a
few weeks. His mother had re-
married about two years after the
birth of her son; her second hus-
band was a master-bricklayer, and
Jonson was put to work with him.
He did not like this employment,
so enlisted in the army and went to
the Low Countries, where the
English troops were fighting the
Spaniards. He killed an enemy in
single combat and took opima
spolia from him. He soon returned
to England, and began to work for
the Admiral's company both as
playwright and actor. Some of his
early plays were probably written
in collaboration and were regarded
by their author as hack-work, and
so are not preserved. Meres in his
Palladis Tamia (1598) mentions
Jonson as among the best for
tragedy; but his early tragedies are
lost. On 22nd September, 1598,
Jonson killed a fellow-actor, Gabriel
Spencer, in a duel; he was almost
hanged for this breach of the
Queen's peace, only escaping by
benefit of clergy. He forfeited his
goods and chattels, and was branded
on his left thumb with the Tyburn
T. During his imprisonment he
became a Papist, and so continued
for twelve years. In 1605 Jonson
was again imprisoned; he had
collaborated with Chapman and
Marston in a play called Eastward
Ho, which was considered by a
sensitive follower of King James I
to contain some unpardonable as-
persions upon the Scottish nation.
The three authors were sent to
gaol, Jonson, whose share in the
play was a small one, voluntarily
surrendering himself. The report
was that they were to have their
ears and noses cut, but they were
released unpunished, the Scottish
knight w r ho accused them having
perhaps realized that another sur-
gical operation was more urgent.
In 1613 Jonson went to France as
tutor to Sir Walter Raleigh's elder
son. In 1618 he journeyed, to Scot-
land on foot, leaving London prob-
ably about June, and starting on his
return journey on 25th January,
1619. He spent a fortnight or so in
December, 1618, at Hawthorn-
den with the poet William Drum-
mond, who wrote notes of his con-
versations with Jonson, desultory
but priceless, for his own edifica-
tion and with no idea of publish-
ing them. These notes were first
printed in a garbled form in 1711;
the first adequate edition, repro-
ducing a transcript made by Sir
Robert Sibbald the antiquary, was
250
BENJAMIN JONSON
produced by David Laing in 1842.
In 1619 Jonson was created an
M.A, of Oxford; in 1628 he suc-
ceeded Middleton as City Chrono-
loger. In spite of an overwhelming
tradition to the contrary, firmly
embedded in all textbooks, Jonson
was never Poet Laureate de jure]
de facto he occupied a position
somewhat equivalent to it. During
his later years Jonson gathered
round him many young men who
loved to be called his sons and to
be " sealed of the tribe of Ben-
jamin "; he reigned as dldator
perpetuus over a sort of club which
met _ in the Apollo Room of the
Devil Tavern. He was long in
ill -health, suffering from dropsy,
scrofula, gout, and paralysis. After
his death, which took place on
6th August, 1637, he was buried
in the north side of the nave of
Westminster Abbey, and the inscrip-
tion " rare Ben Jonson " was
cut on his slab by the order of a
casual visitor.
Jonson's earliest extant play may
have been The Case is Altered,
a meritorious but un-Jonsonian
comedy. His first great play,
Every Man in his Humour -, appeared
at the Globe in 1598. Shakespeare
was one of the cast, and there is a
strong tradition that the play was
accepted owing to his intervention.
This play is of the greatest impor-
tance ^ in ^ English dramatic history,
and is in itself an amusing and
spontaneous play, which its author
was not able to surpass for some
seven years. Its companion piece,
Every Man out of his Humour
(1599), is much less pleasing. There
is an undercurrent of bitterness
running through it, and its humor-
pus characters are caricatures of
impossible persons. It has, how-
ever, several amusing scenes. Cyn-
thia's Revels, performed in 1600
by the children of the Queen's
Chapel, is an unsuccessful return
to _ Lylyesque allegorical comedy.
It is long and well-written, but has
lost much of the sparkle which it
originally possessed'. The Poetaster
(1601) is a much livelier play. It is
a counter-attack upon Dekker and
Marston, the latter of whom had
already represented Jonson on the
stage. It ends with a highly comic
scene, based upon Lucian's Lexl-
phanes, in which Marston vomits
up all his crudities of diction.
Jonson was disappointed with his
success as a writer of comedies,
and resolved to transfer his atten-
tions to tragedy. Sqanus (1603) is
the result. It is a carefully written
tragedy, which adhcrs most scrupu-
lously to Tacitus and the other
authorities, but it lias little action,
and fails to give almost everything
that is required in a tragedy. A
similar verdict may be given upon
the other tragedy, Catiline (1611),
where Jonson had a somewhat
better subject, and treated it if
anything less adequately. In 1605
Jonson's masterpiece, Volpone, was
acted both at the Globe and at the
two Universities. It is a scathing
satire on greed and avarice, based
in part upon some incidents in the
Satiricon of Petronius. It is a well-
constructed and marvellously clever
play, but its subject is repellent,
and it is stretching language to the
uttermost to call it a comedy.
Epicoenc, or the Silent Woman
(1609) is a masterpiece of farce,
and is well-constructed, though,
like some of Barrie's plays, it is
based upon a trick, and is less
effective when seen or read for the
second time. It is, perhaps, the
BENJAMIN JON9ON
25*
best-tempered of all the plays.
The Alchemist (1610) is another
masterpiece; it is a bitter satire
on greed and lust. There is some-
thing of the spirit of Plautus in it,
but it is anima Plautina habitans
in sicco the soul of Plautus dwell-
ing in waterless places. The last of
the great plays is Bartholomew
Fair (1614), a crude and realistic
farce, which depicts low life in
London with admirable, if some-
times unsavoury, fidelity. The
Devil is an Ass (1616) marks a dis-
tinct decline. In it Jonson harked
back to some features of the old
morality-play, and though there is
an amusing satire upon the " pro-
jectors " of the time, the play as a
whole is neither w r ell- constructed
nor witty. He did not \vrite any
more stage-plays until 1625, when
The Staple of News appeared. It is
an unsuccessful attempt to mix
allegory and Aristophanic comedy.
Swinburne praised it excessively,
but it has not many other admirers.
The New Inn, produced in 1629,
was a complete failure, and was not
heard to the end. It is a play with
a romantic plot more absurd than
can be easily imagined. There are
passages of fine writing in it, but
as a whole it is marred by extra-
vagance and improbability. The
Magnetic Lady (1632) was intended
to complete the cycle of plays
dealing with " humours ", but it is
a feeble play in comparison with its
companion pieces. A Tale of a Tub
(1633) i s tne l ast f Jonson's plays,
though there is some reason to
suppose that it is a youthful pro-
duction of Jonson's which he
refurbished in his old age. It is a
good straightforward rustic farce
with no pretence to depth, but
much less tedious than the plays
of Jonson J s old age. When Jonson
died, in 1637, he left two dramatic
fragments behind him, one the
beautiful pastoral play of The Sad
Shepherd, of which we have nearly
three complete acts, and the other
a small fragment of seventy lines
of a tragedy on The Fall of Morti-
mer. The Sad Shepherd, in spite of
occasional lapses of taste and dis-
plays of artificiality and simplesse,
is a marvellous play, and has a rich
vein of poetry and fancy in it. It
makes us revise some of our
opinions about Jonson. The frag-
ment of Mortimer does not make
us feel any regret that it was not
completed.
From 1605 to 1630 Jonson wrote
many masques for performance at
court. He was the principal masque-
writer of his time; if he did not
invent the masque, he certainly
brought it to perfection; when
Inigo Jones, who designed the
dresses and scenery, quarrelled
with Jonson and insisted on having
another librettist, the masque im-
mediately declined. Masques were
mainly designed to display the
expensive dresses and elaborate
dances of the noble lords and
ladies who performed in them.
They did not give much scope to
the librettist, and Jonson's masques
do not rise, except occasionally,
above the level of mediocrity as
poetry, though as masques they are
the best we have. The best of them
are: The Masque of Queens (1609),
Love Restored (1611), and News
from the New World Discovered in
the Moon (1621). Jonson also wrote
several " entertainments ", which
were in some respects akin to
masques, but not identical with
them, their central feature being a
speech of welcome, not a dance.
35'
BENJAMIN JON SON
Jonson wrote a large quantity of
verse of various kindsepigrams,
addresses, lyrics, elegies, and
epistles; little of it, however, is
superlatively good, though much
of it is well-expressed and weighty.
Jonson had not the lyric touch his
best-known song, Drink to me only
with thine eyes, being quite excep-
tional, as well as being based on
some passages in the letters of
Philostratus. Some of his poems
appeared under the title of Epi-
grams and The Forest in the folio
edition of his works which was
published in 1616, Others, under
the title Underwoods, appeared in
the 1640 folio.
Jonson left two incomplete prose
works behind him when he died.
One was Timber, or Discoveries
made upon Men and Matter , which
was long thought to be a series of
somewhat disjointed but original
essays, and which was extrava-
gantly eulogized by Swinburne as
such. It has now been carefully
analysed, and appears to be a sort
of commonplace book, probably not
intended for publication, in which
Jonson noted down passages which
appealed to him, sometimes trans-
lating or adapting from the classics,
and sometimes from contemporary
classical scholars. The other work
is an English Grammar , modelled
closely on Lily's Latin Grammar,
and interesting chiefly as illustrat-
ing the self-conscious nature of
Jonson's craftsmanship.
Among a cloud of somewhat
nebulous contemporaries, the figure
of Jonsoa stands out solid and well-
defined. We have a clear picture
of him fighting his battles /nth
sword and with pen, giving no
quarter and expecting none. We
sec him, aged forty-six and weigh-
ing almost twenty stone, advancing
slowly on Scotland like a tank, and
scandalizing the douce laird of
Ilawthornclcn. We see him in the
Apollo Room, drinking deep, and,
like an antique Roman, enforcing
to the utmost his pairia potcstas
against any of his sons who were
recalcitrant. lie is perhaps the
greatest of all the Elizabethans
after Shakespeare, and yet his
plays are seldom, read and hardly
ever acted. His qualities arouse
admiration rather than enthusiasm.
lie was a titanic workman with a
strong sense of his own importance
and an ever-present idea of the
sacred nature of his mission as a
poet. Ho lacked, the divine fire,
and so was not successful in much
of his work, though no one else
has so nearly taken the kingdom of
poetry by storm. His work is quite
devoid of charm, whimsicality, and
the capaciousness of the Comic
Muse. The saving grace of non-
sense rarely comes to his rescue.
Yet he is a colossal figure in English
letters, and is always wise and
weighty in his thought. Above all,
he is transparently honest, delight-
fully uncompromising, and un-
flinchingly manly in everything
that he wrote.
[C. II. llcrford and P. Simpson,
The Oxford Jonson,} M. Castelain,
Ben Jonson: Chomme ctTwiwre] G.
Gregory Smith, lien Jonson (Eng-
lish Men of Letters Series); A. C.
Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jon-
son; J. A, Symonds, Ben Jonson
(English Worthies Series); Sir A.
W. Ward, History of English Dra-
matic Literature^ R. P. Patterson,
Ben Jonson 1 s Conversations with
William Dnimmond ofliawthornden.]
14
BEN JONSON
From the painting after Gerard Honthorst in the National
Portrait Gallery
BENJAMIN JONSON 253
From "Every Man in his Humour 55
MATTHEW. ED. KNO'WELL. BOBADIL. STEPHEN. DOWN-RIGHT.
Matthew. Sir, did your eyes ever taste the like Clown of him, where
we were to-day, Mr. Well-bred's half Brother? I think the whole Earth
cannot shew his Parallel by this Day-light.
Ed. Kno'well. We were now speaking of him: Captain Bobadil
tells me he is fallen foul o j you too.
Matthew. O, I Sir, he threatned me with the Bastinado.
Bobadil. I, but I think, I taught you prevention this Morning, for
that You shall kill him beyond question: if you be so generously
minded.
Matthew. Indeed, it is a most excellent Trickl
Bobadil. O, you do not give spirit enough to your motion, you are
too tardy, too heavy! O, it must be done like lightning, hay?
[He practises at a Post.
Matthew. "Rare Captain!
Bobadil. -Tut, 'tis nothing, an't be not done in a puntol
Ed. Kno'welL Captain, did you ever prove your self upon any of our
Masters of defence here?
Matthew. O good Sirl yes I hope he has.
Bobadil. I will tell you, Sir. Upon my first coming to the City,
after my long travail, for knowledg (in that mistery only) there came
three or four of 'em to me, at a Gentlemans House, where it was my
chance to be resident at that time, to intreat my Presence at their Schools;
and withal so much importun'cl me, that (I protest to you, as I am a
Gentleman) I was asharn'd of their rude demeanour out of all measure:
well, I told 'em that to come to a publick School, they should, pardon
me, it was opposite (in diameter) to my Humour; but, if so be they would
give their attendance at my lodging, I protested to do them what right or
favour I could, as I was a Gentleman, and so forth.
Ed. Kno'welLSo, Sir, then you tryed their skill?
jB06<w&7. Alas, soon tryed! you shall hear Sir. Within two or three
days after they came; and, by honesty, fair Sir, believe me, I grac'd
them exceedingly, shew'd them some two or three tricks of prevention,
have purchased 'em since a Credit to admiration! they cannot deny
this: and yet now they hate me, and why? because I am excellent, and
for no other vile Reason on the Earth.
Ed. Kno'welL This is strange and barbarous! as ever I heard.
Bobadil.N*y 9 for a more instance of their preposterous natures;
but note, Sir. They have assaulted me some three, four, five, six of them
together, as I have walkt alone in divers Skirts i' the Town, as Turn-
2S4 BENJAMIN JONSON
bull, White-chappel, Shore-ditch, which were then my Quarters; and since,
upon the Exchange, at my Lodging, and at my Ordinary: where I have
driven them afore me the whole length of a Street, in the open view
of all our Gallants, pitying to hurt them, believe me. Yet all this Lenity
will not o 're-come their Spleen; they will be doing with the Pismier,
raising a Hill a Man may spurn abroad with his Foot at pleasure. By
my self I could have slain them all, but I delight not in Murder. I am
loth to bear any other than this Bastinado for 'em: yet I hold it good
polity not to go disarm 'd, for though I be skilful, I may be oppress 'd
with Multitudes.
Ed. Kno'well. I, believe me, may you Sir: and (in my conceit) our
whole Nation should sustain the loss by it, if it were so.
Bobadil. Alas no: what's a peculiar Man to a Nation? not seen.
Ed. Kno'well, O, but your skill, Sir.
Bobadil. Indeed, that might be some loss; but who respects it?
I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under Seal; I am a Gentle-
man, and live here obscure, and to my self; but, were I known to Her
Majesty and the Lords (observe me) I would undertake (upon this poor
Head and Life) for the publick benefit of the State, not only to spare
the intire Lives of her Subjects in general, but to save the one half; nay,
three parts of her yearly charge in holding War, and against what Enemy
soever. And how would I do it think you?
Ed. Kno'well. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive.
Bobadil Why thus, sir. I would select Nineteen more, to my self
throughout the Land; Gentlemen they should be of good Spirit, strong
and able Constitution, I would choose them by an instinct, a Character
that I have: And I would teach these Nineteen the special Rules, as your
Punto, your Reverso, your S 'toccata, your Imbroccata, your Passada, your
Montanto; till they could all play very near, or altogether as well as my
self. This done, say the Enemy were Forty thousand strong, we Twenty
would come into the Field the Tenth of March, or thereabouts; and
we would challenge Twenty of the Enemy; they could not in their
Honour refuse us; well we would kill them; challenge Twenty more,
kill them; Twenty more, kill them; Twenty more, kill them too; and
thus would we kill every Man his Twenty a day, that's Twenty score;
Twenty score, that's Two hundred; Two hundred a day, five days a
thousand; Forty thousand; Forty times five, Five times forty, Two
hundred days kills them all up by Computation. And this will I venture
my poor Gentleman-like Carcass to perform (provided there be no
Treason practised upon us) by fair and discreet Manhood; that is, civilly
by the Sword.
Ed. Kno'welL Why are you so sure of your hand, Captain, at all
times?
Bobadil. Tut, never miss thrust upon my Reputation with you.
BENJAMIN JONSON 255
Ed. Kno'well.I would not stand in Down-rights state then, an' you
meet him, for the Wealth of any one Street in London.
BobadiL Why, Sir, you mistake me! if he were here now, by this
welkin, I would not draw my Weapon on him! let this Gentleman do
his mind: but I will bastinado him (by the bright Sun) where ever I meet
him.
Matthew. Faith, and I'll have a fling at him at my distance.
Ed. Kno^ell. Gods so; look where he is; yonder he goes.
[Down-right walks over the stage.
Dozen-right. What peevish luck have I, I cannot meet with these
bragging Raskals?
BobadiL It's not he? is it?
Ed. Kno'well. Yes faith, it is he.
Matthew. I'll be hanged then if that were he.
Ed. Kno'well. Sir, keep your hanging good for some greater matter,
for I assure you that was he.
Stephen. Upon my Reputation it was he.
BobadiL Had I thought it had been he, he must not have gone so:
but I can hardly be induc'd to believe it was he yet.
Ed Kno'welL That I think, Sir. But see, he is come again!
Down-right. O, Pharaohs foot have I found you? Come, draw to your
Tools; draw Gipsie, or I'll thresh you.
BobadiL Gentleman of valour, I do believe in thee, hear me
Down-right. Draw your Weapon then.
BobadiL Tall Man, I never thought on it till now (body of me) I
had a Warrant of the Peace served on me, even now as I came along,
by a Water-bearer; this Gentleman saw it, Mr. Matthew.
Down-right. 'Sdeath, you will not draw then?
[He beats him and disarms him, Matthew runs away.
BobadiL Hold, hold, under thy favour forbear.
Down-right. Prate again, as you like this, you Whoreson foist you.
You'll controul the Point, you? Your Consort is gone? had he staid he
had shar'd with you, Sir.
BobadiL Well Gentlemen, bear Witness, I was bound to the Peace,
by this good day.
Ed. Kno'well. No faith, it's an ill day, Captain, never reckon it
other: but, say you were bound to the Peace, the Law allows you to
defend yourself: that'll prove but a poor excuse.
BobadiL I cannot tell, Sir. I desire good construction in fair sort.
I never sustain'd the like disgrace (by Heaven) sure I was struck with a
Plannet thence, for I had no power to touch my Weapon.
Ed. Kno'welL I, like enough, I have heard of many that have been
beaten under a Plannet: go, get you to a Surgeon. 'Slid, an' these be
your Tricks, your passadoes, and your mountantoes, I'll none of them. O,
256 BENJAMIN JONSON
manners! that this Age should bring forth such Creatures! that Nature
should be at leisure to make 'era! Come, Couz.
Stephen. Mass I'll ha' this Cloke.
Ed. Kno'well. Gods will, 'tis Down-rights.
Stephen. Nay, it's mine now, another might have tane't up as well as
I, I'll wear it, so I will,
Ed. Rno'well. How an' he see It? he'll challenge it, assure your self,
Stephen. T, but he shall not ha' it; I'll say I bought it.
Ed. Kno'welL Take heecl you buy it not too dear Couz.
(Act IV, Sc. 7.)
From "Volpone" (The Fox)
CBLIA
Some Serene blast me, or clire Lightning strike
This my offending Face.
VOLPONE
Why droops my Celia?
Thou hast in place of a base Husband, found
A worthy Lover: use thy Fortune well,
With secrecy and pleasure. See, behold,
What thou art Queen of; not in expectation ,
As I feed others: but possessed and crown'd.
See, here, a Rope of Pearl; and each, more Orient
Than that the brave /Egyptian Queen carrous'd;
Dissolve and drink 'em. Sec, a Carbuncle,
May put out both the Eyes of our St. Mark;
A Diamond would have brought Laullia Paulina,
When she came in like Star-light hid with Jewels,
That were the Spoyls of Provinces; take these,
And wear, and lose 'em: yet remains an Ear-ring
To purchase them again, and this whole state.
A Gem but worth a private Patrimony,
Is nothing: we will eat such at a Meal.
The Heads of Parrots, Tongues of Nightingales,
The Brains of Peacocks, and of Estriches
Shall be our Food: and, could we get the Phoenix,
(Though Nature lost her kind) she were our Dish.
CELIA
Good Sir, these things might move a Mind affected
With such delights; but I, whose Innocence
BENJAMIN JONSON 257
Is all I can think wealthy, or worth th' enjoying,
And which once lost, I have nought to lose beyond it,
Cannot be taken with these sensual Baits:
If you have Conscience
VOLPONE
Tis the Beggers Vertue,
If thou hast Wisdom, hear me, Celia.
Thy Bathes shall be the Juice of July-flowers,
Spirit of Roses, and of Violets,
The Milk of Unicorns, and Panthers breath
Gather 'd in Bags, and mist with Cretan Wines.
Our drink shall be prepared Gold and Amber;
Which we will take, until my Roof whirl round
With the Vertigo: and my Dwarf shall dance,
My Eunuch sing, my Fool make up the Antick,
Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovids Tales,
Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove,
Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine:
So, of the rest, till we have quite run through
And wearied all the Fables of the Gods.
Then will I have thee in more modern Forms,
Attired like some sprightly Dame of France,
Brave Tuscan Lady, or proud Spanish Beauty;
Sometimes, unto the Persian Sophies Wife;
Or the Grand Signiors Mistress; and, for change,
To one of our most artful Courtizans,
Or some quick Negro, or cold Russian;
And I will meet thee in as many shapes:
Where we may so transfuse our wandring Souls:
Out at our Lips, and score up sums of Pleasures,
That the curious shall not know
How to tell them, as they flow;
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pind.
(Act III, Sc. 7.)
Song. To Celia
Drink to me, only, with thine Eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a Kiss but in the Cup,
And I'll not look for Wine.
VOL. ii.
BENJAMIN JONSON
The Thirst, that from the Soul cloth rise,
Doth ask a Drink clivinc:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosy Wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be .
But thou thereon dicTst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of it self, but thee.
Chans' Triumph
Sec the Chariot at Hand here of Love
Wherein my Lady ridcth!
Each that draws, is a Swan, or a Dove
And well the Car Love guideth.
As she goes, all Hearts do duty
Unto her Beauty,
And enamour 'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight ;
That they still were to run by her side,
Thorough Swords, thorough Seas, whither she would ride
Do but look on her Eyes, they do light
All that Love's World comprised! i
Do but look on her Hair, it is bright
As Love's Star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her Forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched Brows, such a Grace
Sheds it self through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the Gain, all the Good of the Elements strife.
Have you seen but a bright Lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Ha J you mark'd but the fall o' the Snow
Before the Soyl hath smutch'd it?
BENJAMIN JONSON 259
Ha' you felt the Wooll of Sever?
A
Or Swans Down ever?
Or have smelt o' the Bud o 5 the Briar?
Or the Nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the Bag of the Bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy 5 a Boy-actor
Weep with me all you that read
This little Story:
And know for whom a Tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a Child, that so did thrive
In Grace, and Feature,
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive
Which own'd the Creature.
Years he numbred scarce Thirteen
When Fates turn'd cruel,
Yet three fill'd Zodiacks had he been
The Stages Jewel;
And did act (what now we moan)
Old Men so duly,
As, sooth, the Parcse thought him one,
He play'd so truly.
So, by Error to his Fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late)
They have repented ;
And have sought (to give new birth)
In Baths to steep him;
But, being so much too good for Earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.
Discoveries. De Shakespeare Nostrati
I remember, the Players have often mentioned it as an honour to
Shakespeare, that in his Writing, (whatsoever he penn'd) he never blotted
out a Line. My answer hath been, Would he had blotted a thousand.
Which they thought a malevolent Speech. I had not told Posterity this,
but for their ignorance, who chose that Circumstance to commend their
Friend by, wherein he most faulted. And to Justine mine own Candor,
(for I lov'd the Man, and do honour his Memory (on this side Idolatry)
260
BENJAMIN JONSON
as much as any.) He was (indeed) honest, and of an open and free Nature:
had an excellent Phantsic; brave Notions, and gentle Expressions: "wherein
he flow'cl with that facility, that sometime it was necessary he should
be stop'd: Sufflaminandus erat; as Augustus said of Hatcrius. His
Wit was in his own Power; would the Rule of it had been so too. Many
times he fell into those things, could not escape laughter: As when he
said in the Person of Caesar, one speaking to him; Gtcsar thou dost me
wrong. He reply'd; Ccesar did never wrong, but willi just Cause-, and such
like; which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his Vices with his Vertues.
There was ever more in him to be praised, than to be pardoned.
JOHN WEBSTER
(? 1580-? 1625)
WE know that John Webster was
writing plays between 1602 and
1624, and that he was a member
of the Merchant Taylors Company;
we know scarcely anything more
about him. We do not know when
he was bom or when he died, where
he was educated, or how he earned
his living. His life is perhaps more
completely in obscurity than that
of any important Elizabethan. Dur-
ing his apprenticeship as a dramatist
he wrote only in collaboration. He
collaborated with Middleton and
several others in two plays, Ctesar's
Fall and The Two Harpies, and
assisted Dekker, Hey wood, and
Wentworth Smith to write Lady
Jane. The former two plays are
lost; but Lady Jane is usually
identified with The Famous History
of Sir Thomas Wyat, an inverte-
brate play which bears many traces
of the hand of Dekker and none of
the hand of Webster. Webster had
some share in the second edition of
Marston's Malcontent (1604), but
it is probable that his sole contri-
bution was the introduction,
a
work of little merit. The two
citizen comedies Westward Ho
and Northward Ho were both
written in conjunction with Dekker.
The former probably induced Jon-
son, Chapman, and Marston to
write Eastward IIo (1605), which
in its turn prompted the produc-
tion of Northward Ho. These
plays were written in friendly
rivalry, not enmity; and Dekker's
and Webster's two plays are good
and vigorous, though not equal to
Eastward No. There is much
evidence to show that Webster was
a careful and deliberate workman;
collaboration, therefore, did not
suit him, and he reserved his
strength for his original work. The
earlier of his two great tragic
masterpieces, The White Devil (also
known as Vittoria Corombona}^
was printed in 1612, and was prob-
ably written in the previous year.
The source of its plot has caused
some investigators considerable
trouble. The play is founded on
fact, and the events on which it is
based took place between 1581
JOHN WEBSTER
261
and 1585. No account of these
events has been found which corre-
sponds exactly with the version
given by Webster. It is probable
that the alterations which he in-
troduced were for the purpose of
making the play more effective on
the stage, just as Shakespeare
altered Cinthio w r hen writing
Othello. Webster's object was to
make a powerful tragedy, not to
reconstruct with exactitude what
actually happened. He has com-
pletely attained his object, and has
written a masterly play on the same
lines as Kyd's crude revenge-plays
and Tourneur's extravagant tra-
gedies. The other masterpiece of
Webster, The Duchess of Malfy,
is, if anything, more masterly. It
is based on an old story, winch is
probably alluded to by Malvolio
in Twelfth Night, II, v, 45 (" the
lady of the Strachy married the
yeoman of the w r ardrobe "). This
play was probably written about
1613, though not printed until
1623. It is a riper play than its
great predecessor, and is probably
the greatest non - Shakespearean
tragedy of Elizabethan times. In
these two plays Webster shows
himself to have complete mastery
over all forms of pity and terror,
and to be able to raise melodrama
to the plane of tragedy. Webster's
other plays include: The Guise and
A Late Murther of the Sonne upon
the Mother (with Ford), both lost;
The Devil's Law-case,, an unequal
play in which purple patches are
sewn on some veritable fustian;
Appiits and Virginia, a play which
is meritorious rather than masterly;
and A Cure for a Cuckold, a mix-
ture of rough farce and romantic
comedy. He has also been credited
or debited with the authorship of
The Thradan Wonder^ a play in
which he had no share. The usual
elegy on Henry , Prince of Wales,
a few occasional poems, and a
city-pageant, Monuments of Honor
(1624), comprise the rest of Web-
ster's extant works.
Webster's fame rests almost en-
tirely on his two masterpieces. In
them he has shown himself to be
the nearest to Shakespeare among
his contemporaries as a writer of
tragedies, and, as Domitius Afer
said of Virgil, he is " propior primo
quam tertio ". His plots are not
well worked out, and his work is
lessened in value by a certain
Grand Guignol and macabre ele-
ment; but he was an artist in
words, with a marvellous gift of
phrase. He had the restraint of a
true master, and he saw deeply
into the hearts of men. His work
shares with that of Shakespeare
the quality of inevitableness; the
characters of other playwrights
might have spoken as they do;
those of Shakespeare and of Web-
ster must so have spoken. Webster
is an apt pupil of Shakespeare's;
not in the letter which killeth,
but in the spirit which giveth
life.
[A. C. Swinburne, The Age of
Shakespeare^ R. C. Brooke, John
Webster and the Elizabethan Drama,
E. E. Stoll, John Webster: the
Periods of his Work. The best
edition is that of F. L. Lucas (4
vols., 1927).]
) 2 JOHN WEBSTER
From a Tlie Duchess of Malfy ??
(The DUCHESS'S marriage with ANTONIO being discovered, her
brother FERDINAND shuts her up in a prison, and torments her
with various trials of studied cruelty. By his command, BOSOLA,
the instrument of his devices, shows her the bodies of her husband
and children counterfeited in wax, as dead.)
BOSOLA
He doth present you this sad spectacle,
That now you know directly they arc dead,
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve
For that which cannot be recovered.
DUCHESS
There is not between heaven and earth one wish
I stay for after this : it wastes me more
Than were't my picture fashion'd out of wax,
Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried
In some foul dunghill; and 'yond's an excellent property
For a tyrant, which I would account mercy.
BOSOLA
What's that?
DUCHESS
If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk,
And let me freeze to death.
BOSOLA
Come, you must live.
Leave this vain sorrow.
Things being at the worst begin to mend.
The bee,
When he hath shot his sting into your hand,
May then play with your eyelid.
DUCHESS
Good comfortable fellow,
Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel
To have all his bones new set; entreat him live
JOHN WEBSTER 263
To be executed again. Who must despatch me?
I account this world a tedious theatre,
For I do play a part in't 'gainst my will.
BOSOLA
Come, be of comfort; I will save your life.
DUCHESS
Indeed I have not leisure to attend
So small a business.
I will go pray. No: I'll go curse.
BOSOLA
One!
DUCHESS
I could curse the stars!
BOSOLA
O fearful.
DUCHESS
And those three smiling seasons of the year
Into a Russian winter: nay, the world
To its first chaos.
Plagues (that make lanes through largest families)
Consume them!
Let them like tyrants
Ne'er be remember'd but for the ill they've done!
Let all the zealous prayers of mortified
Churchmen forget them!
Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs,
To punish them! go, howl them this; and say, I long to bleed:
It is some mercy, when men kill with speed. [Exit.
(FERDINAND enters.)
FERDINAND
Excellent, as I would wish: she's plagued in art.
These presentations are but framed in wax,
By the curious master in that quality
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them
For true substantial bodies.
JOHN WEBSTER
BOSQLA
Why do you do this?
FERDINAND
To bring her to despair.
BOSQLA
Faith, end here;
And go no further in your cruelty.
Send her a penitential garment to put on
Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her
With beads and prayer-books.
FERDINAND
Damn her; that body of hers,
While that my blood ran pure in't, was more worth
Than that, which them wouldst comfort, calPd a soul,
I'll send her masques of common courtezans,
Have her meat served up by bawcls and ruffians,
And ('cause she'll need be mad) I am resolved
To remove forth the common hospital
All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging:
There let them practise together, sing, and dance,
And act their gambols to the full of the moon.
(She is kept 'waking with noises of Madmen: and, at last, is
strangled "by common Executioners.)
DUCHESS. CARIOLA.
DUCHESS
What hideous noise was that?
CARIOLA
Tis the wild consort
Of madmen, lady; which your tyrant brother
Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny
I think was never practised till this hour.
DUCHESS
Indeed I thank him; nothing but noise and folly
Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason
JOHN WEBSTER 265
And silence make me stark mad; sit down,
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy.
CARIOLA
O, 'twill increase your melancholy.
DUCHESS
Thou art deceived.
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.
This is a prison?
CARIOLA
Yes: but thou shalt live
To shake this durance off.
DUCHESS
Thou art a fool.
The robin-redbreast and the nightingale
Never live long in cages.
CARIOLA
Pray, dry your eyes.
What think you of, madam?
DUCHESS
Of nothing:
When I muse thus, I sleep.
CARIOLA
Like a madman, with your eyes open?
DUCHESS
Dost thou think we shall know one another
In the other world?
CARIOLA
Yes, out of question.
DUCHESS
O that it were possible we might
But hold some two days' conference with the dead!
From them I should learn somewhat I am sure
JOHN WEBSTER
I never shall know here. I'll tell thec a miracle;
I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow.
The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,
The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad;
I am acquainted with sad misery,
As the tann'd galley-slave is with, his oar;
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now?
CARIOLA
Like to your picture in the gallery:
A deal of life in show, but none in practice:
Or rather, like some reverend monument
Whose ruins are cv'n pitied,
DUCIIKBS
Very proper:
And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight,
To behold my tragedy: how now,
What noise is that?
(A SKRVANT oil en.)
SERVANT
I am come to tell you,
Your brother hath intended you some sport.
A great physician, when the Pope was sick
Of a deep melancholy, presented him
With several sorts of madmen, which wild object
(Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh,
And so the imposthume broke: the selfsame cure
The duke intends on you.
DUCHESS
Let them come in.
(Here follows a Dance of sundry sorts of Madmen, with music
answerable thereto: after which BQSOLA (like an old wan) enters,)
DUCHESS
Is he mad too?
BOSOLA
I am come to make thy tomb.
JOHN WEBSTER 267
DUCHESS
Ha! my tomb?
Thou speak'st as If I lay upon my deathbed,
Gasping for breath: dost thou perceive me sick?
BOSOLA
Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible.
DUCHESS
Thou art not mad sure: dost know me?
BOSOLA
Yes.
DUCHESS
Who am I?
BOSOLA
Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of green mummy.
What's this flesh? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies
are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in, more con-
temptible; since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a
lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little
turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads, like her looking-glass, only
gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison.
DUCHESS
Am not I thy duchess?
BOSOLA
Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead
(clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk-maid's.
Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her
lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie
with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow.
DUCHESS
I am Duchess of Malfy still.
BOSOLA
That makes thy sleeps so broken:
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright;
But, look'd too near, have neither heat nor light.
268 JOHN WEBSTER
Dircnisss
Thou art very plain.
BOSOLA
My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living.
I am a tomb -maker.
Ducnuss
And thou comcst to make my tomb?
BOSOLA
Yes.
DUCHESS
Let me be a little merry.
Of what stuff wilt thou make it?
BOSOLA
Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion?
DUCHESS
Why, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed?
Do we affect fashion in the grave?
BOSOLA
Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they
were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their hands under
their cheeks (as if they died of the tooth-ache): they are not carved with
their eyes fixed upon the stars; but, as their minds were wholly bent
upon the world, the selfsame way they seem to turn their faces.
DUCHESS
Let me know fully therefore the effect
Of this thy dismal preparation,
This talk, fit for a charnel.
BOSOLA
Now I shall. [A coffin, cords, and a bell, produced.
Here is a present from your princely brothers;
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.
JOHN WEBSTER 269
DUCHESS
Let me see it.
I have so much obedience in my blood,
I wish it in their veins to do them good.
BOSOLA
This is your last presence-chamber.
CARIOLA
my sweet lady!
DUCHESS
Peace, it affrights not me.
BOSOLA
1 am the common bellman,
That usually is sent to condemn *d persons
The night before they suffer.
DUCHESS
Even now thou saidst,
Thou wast a tomb-maker.
BOSOLA
'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification. Listen.
Dirge
Hark, now everything is still;
This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay's now competent.
A long war disturb 'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping.
Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping:
Their life, a general mist of error;
Their death, a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet:
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day:
End your groan, and come away.
JOHN WEBSTER
CARIOLA
Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas!
What will you do with my lady? Call for help,
Ducnisss
To whom; to our next neighbours? They are mad folks.
Farewell, Canola.
I pray thcc look thou givcst my little boy
Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep .Now what you please;
What death?
BOSOLA
#*
Strangling, Here arc your executioners.
DUCHESS
I forgive them.
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough of the lungs,
Would do as much as they do.
BOSOLA
Doth not death fright you?
DUCHESS
Who would be afraid on't,
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In the other world?
BOSOLA
Yet methinks,
The manner of your death should much afflict you;
This cord should terrify you.
DUCHESS
Not a whit.
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to be smother 'd
With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
I know, death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits: and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways; anyway: (for heaven's sake)
JOHN WEBSTER 271
So I W 7 ere out of your whispering: tell my brothers,
That I perceive, death (now I'm well awake)
Best gift is, they can give or I can take.
I would fain put off my last woman's fault;
I'd not be tedious to you.
Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me.
Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arclrd
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death,
Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep.
Go tell my brothers; when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her, kneeling.
(FERDINAND enters?)
FERDINAND
Is she dead?
BOSOLA
She is what you would have her.
Fix your eye here.
FERDINAND
Constantly.
BOSOLA
Do you not weep?
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.
FERDINAND
Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: she died young.
BOSOLA
I think not so: her infelicity
Seem'd to have years too many.
FERDINAND
She and I were twins:
And should I die this instant, I had lived
Her time to a minute.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
SIR WALTER RALEIGH was the son
of a Devonshire gentleman, and was
born about 1552. He was educated
at Oriel College, Oxford, where he
did not graduate; and at an early
age became a soldier, serving in
France in the Huguenot army at
Jarnac and Moncontour. He ac-
companied his half-brother, Sir
Humphrey Gilbert, on a voyage of
discovery in 1578; in 1580 he dis-
tinguished himself in the Irish
rebellion both by ability and se-
verity. He held the view that
leniency to bloody-minded male-
factors was cruelty to good and
peaceable subjects. In 1581 he was
sent to England with dispatches,
and at once became the queen's
favourite. The act of gallantry to
which by tradition he owed his
advancement is poetically if not
historically true, and casts a valuable
light on the characters of Elizabeth
and Raleigh alike. His rise was
rapid. In 1584 he obtained a
charter of colonization and un-
successfully attempted the settle-
ment of Virginia in one or two
following years. In 1584, also, he
obtained a large share of the for-
feited Irish estates, and introduced
there the cultivation of the potato.
Through the queen's favour he
obtained licences to sell wine and
to export woollens, was knighted
and made Lord Warden of the
Stannaries or tin-mines (1585),
vice-admiral of Devon and Corn-
wall, and captain of the Queen's
Guard (1587). When the Armada
threatened England in 1588 Raleigh
did useful organizing work, but to
Ins chagrin, his official duties pre-
vented him from taking a prominent
part in the actual lighting. He
always held firmly to the principle
that attack is the best form of
defence, and subsequently fitted
out vessels to attack the Spaniards.
In 1592 he incurred the queen's
displeasure by an intrigue with one
of her maids of honour, Elizabeth
i Throgmorton. He aggravated his
offence in the queen's eyes by
marrying the lady, and was im-
prisoned for some months and
banished from court. He never
regained his former position in the
queen's alTections. To discover
the fabled El Dorado or region of
gold lie planned an expedition to
Guiana, on which he embarked in
1595, and reached the Orinoco,
but was obliged to return after
having done little more than take
formal possession of the country
in the name of Elizabeth. In 1596
he held a naval command against
Spain under Lord Howard and the
Earl of Essex, and assisted at the
defeat of the Spanish fleet and the
capture of Cadiz. Next year he
captured Fayal in the Azores; in
1600 he became Governor of Jersey.
James 1, on his accession in 1603,
had his mind poisoned against
Raleigh, whom he deprived of all
his offices. Accused of complicity
in Lord Cobham's plot in favour of
Arabella Stewart, Raleigh was
brought to trial at Winchester (the
plague was raging in London) in
Nov., 1603, After a most unfair
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
From the portrait (artist unknown) in the National Portrait Gallery
15
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
273
trial, in which Coke, the Attorney-
General, disgraced his learned pro-
fession by an exhibition of rancour
and brutality, Raleigh was found
guilty of treason and sentenced to
death. He was, however, reprieved
and confined to the Tower. Here
he remained for twelve years, de-
voting himself to scientific and
literary work. In 1616 he obtained
his release by bribing the favourite
Villiers, and by offering to open a
mine of gold which he believed
to exist near the Orinoco. The
enterprise proved disastrous. His
ships were wrecked by tempests
and their crews prostrated by fever.
Raleigh himself nearly died, and
his beloved elder son was killed
fighting the Spaniards at San
Tomas. Laurence Kemys, who had
led this ill-omened shore expedition,
drove a knife into his heart w T hen
Raleigh rebuked him for his ill-
success. When Raleigh returned to
England with a remnant of his
forces and no gold, James, who
wished to marry the Prince of
Wales (afterwards Charles I) to a
Spanish princess, determined to
propitiate the Spanish court by
executing Raleigh on his former
sentence. After a trial before a
commission of the Privy Council
the doom of death was pronounced
against him, and he was executed
on zQth Oct., 1618. Nothing in his
life became him like the leaving it;
his death did much to destroy what
little remained of James's popu-
larity.
An early biographer says of
Raleigh: " Authors are perplext
under what Topick to place him,
whether of Statesman, Seaman,
Souldier, Chymist, or Chronologer;
for in all these he did excel. He
could make everything he read or
VOL. ii.
heard his own, and his own he
could easily improve to the greatest
Advantage. He seem'd to be born
to that only which he went about,
so Dexterous was he in all his
Undertakings, in Court, in Camp,
by Sea, by Land, with Sword,
with Pen." His life was so full and
adventurous that it Is to bewondered
at that he found any time for study
and literary work. As Dogberry
said, "To be a well-favoured man
is a gift of fortune; but to read
and write comes by nature ";
Raleigh must have been a pupil of
Nature in his literary gifts. His
principal works are: A Report of
the Truth of the Fight about the
Isles of Azores (1591), The Discovery
of the Empyre of Guiana (1596),
and his History of the World (1614).
The last-named work was under-
taken to please Henry, Prince of
Wales, and was abandoned soon
after the untimely death of the
prince. It traces the history of the
world from the creation to 130 B.C.,
when Macedonia became a Roman
province. Some six hundred and
sixty authors are cited in this work.
According to Ben Jonson, " the
best wits of England were employed
for making of his Historic *'. Ben
himself wrote the chapters on the
Punic War; Robert Burhill assisted
with the Greek and Hebrew, and
John Hoskins revised the book.
But the scheme of the book was
Raleigh's; it was grandly planned
and grandly executed, and at times
rises to rare heights of eloquence.
It is, of course, not written criti-
cally; in those days history was a
Muse, not a branch of science.
Raleigh's short poems, some thirty
in number, are admirable; the
fragment which we possess of his
long poem Cynthia, the Lady of the
42
274 SIR WALTER RALKIGII
Sea docs
loss of
[W
Iocs not make us regret the M. Walclman, Sir Waller Rakwk
f the bulk of tliis poem. Sir Sidney Lee, Crcat Englishmen
. Stcbbing, Kir Waller Raleigh; of the Sixteenth Cenlury; T? Brush-
Sir E. Gosse, Raleigh; Sir Rennell iicld, Bibliography of Sir Walter
Rodd, Sir Walter Raleigh; E, Raleigh; 1VI. A." S. llumc, Sir
Edwards, Life of Sir Walter Raleigh,; Waller Rahigh.\
Verses Found in His Bible in the
Gate-house at Westminster
Even such is time, that takes in trust:
Qur youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My Gocl shall raise me up, I trust!
From the "History of the World"
By this which we have already set clown, is seen the beginning and end
of the three first Monarchies of the World; whereof the Founders and
Erectors thought that they could never have ended. That of Rome which
made the fourth, was also at this time almost at the highest. We have
left it flourishing in the middle of the Field; having rooted up or cut
down, all that kept it from the Eyes and Admiration of the World. But
after some continuance, it shall begin to lose the Beauty it had; the storms
of Ambition shall beat her great Boughs and Branches one against another;
her Leaves shall fall off; her Limbs wither, and a Rubble of Barbarous
Nations enter the Field, and cut her clown.
Now these great Kings, and Conquering Nations, have been the
Subject of those Ancient Histories, which have been preserved, and yet
remain among us; and withal of so many Tragical Poets as in the Persons
of powerful Princes, and other Mighty Men have complained against
Infidelity, Time, Destiny; and most of all against the Variable Success
of Worldly things, and Instability of Fortune, To these Undertakings,
the greatest Lords of the World have been stirred up, rather by the de-
sire of Fame, which ploweth up the Air, and sowctli in the Wind; than
by the affection of bearing Rule, which draweth after it so much Vexation,
and so many Cares. And that this is true, the good Advice of Cineas to
Pyrrhus proves. And certainly, as Fame hath often been dangerous to
SIR WALTER RALEIGH 275
the Living, so is it to the Dead of no use at all; because separate from
Knowledge. Which were it otherwise, and the extream ill Bargain of buy-
ing this lasting Discourse, understood by them which are dissolved; they
themselves would then rather have wished, to have stoln out of the World
without noise; than to be put in mind, that they have purchased the
report of their Actions in the World, by Rapine, Oppression and Cruelty,
by giving in Spoil the Innocent and Labouring Soul to the Idle and Inso-
lent, and by having emptied the Cities of the World of their Ancient In-
habitants, and filled them again with so many and so variable sorts of
Sorrows.
Since the fall of the Roman Empire, (omitting that of the Germans,
which had neither greatness nor continuance) there hath been no State
fearful in the East, but that of the Turk; nor in the West any Prince that
hath spred his Wings far over his Nest, but the Spaniard; who since the
time that Ferdinand expelled the Moors out of Granado, have made
many attempts to make themselves Masters of all Europe. And it is true,
that by the Treasures of both Indies, and by the many Kingdoms which
they possess in Europe, they are at this day the most powerful. But as
the Turk is now counterpoised by the Persian, so instead of so many
Millions as have been spent by the English, French, and Netherlands in
a Defensive War, and in Diversions against them, it is easie to demon-
strate, that with the charge of two hundred thousand Pound, continued
but for two years or three at the most, they may not only be perswaded
to live in Peace, but all their swelling and overflowing Streams may be
brought back into their natural Channels and old Banks. These two
Nations, I say, are at this day the most eminent and to be regarded; the
one seeking to root out the Christian Religion altogether, the other the
Truth and Sincere Profession thereof; the one to joyn all Europe to Asia,
the other the rest of all Europe to Spain.
For the rest, if we seek a reason of the Succession and continuance
of this boundless Ambition in Mortal Men, we may add to that which
hath been already said; That the Kings and Princes of the World have
always laid before them, the Actions, but not the Ends, of those great
Ones which preceded them. They are always transported with the Glory
of the one, but they never mind the Misery of the other, till they find
the Experience in themselves. They neglect the Advice of God, while
they enjoy Life, or hope it; but they follow the Counsel of Death, upon
his first approach. It is he that puts into Man all the Wisdom of the
World, without speaking a Word; which God with all the Words of his
Law, Promises or Threats, doth not infuse. Death, which hateth and
destroyeth Man, is believed; God, which hath made him and loves him
is always deferred. I have considered (saith Solomon) all the Works that
are under the Sun, and behold, all is vanity and vexation of Spirit: but
who believes it, till Death tells it us. It was Death, which opening the
276
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
Conscience of Charles the Fifth, made him cnjoyn his Son Philip to re-
store Navarre; and King Francis the First of France, to command that
Justice should be done upon the Murderers of the Protestants in Merindol
and Cabrieres, which till then he neglected. It is therefore Death alone
that can suddenly make Man to know himself, lie tells the Proud and
Insolent, that they are but Abjects, and humbles them at the instant-
makes them crie, complain, and repent; Yea, even to hate their forepassed
Happiness. He takes the account of the Rich, and proves him a Begger;
a naked Begger, which hath interest in nothing, but in the Gravel that
fills his Mouth. lie holds a Glass before the Eyes of the most Beautiful,
and makes them see therein, their Deformity and Rottenness; and they
acknowledge it.
Eloquent, Just and Mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou
hast perswaded; what none hath dared, thou bast clone; and whom all
the World hath flattered, thou only hast cast out; of the World and de-
spised: thou hast drawn together all the far stretched Greatness, all the
Pride, Cruelty, and Ambition of Man, and covered it all over with these
two narrow Words, II ic jewel.
Lastly, Whereas this Book, by the Title it hath, calls itself, The First
Part of the General History of the World, implying a Second, and Third
Volume; which I also intended, and have hewn out; besides many other
Discouragements, perswading my Silence; it; hath pleased God to take
that Glorious Prince out of the World, to whom they were directed;
whose unspeakable and never enough lamented loss, bath taught me to
say with Job, Versa est in Luc turn Cithara mea, Qrgamtm mcum in wcem
flentium.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF
HAWTHORNDEN
(1585-1649)
WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAW-
THORNDEN was born on I3th Decem-
ber, 1585. His father, Sir John
Drummond, was laird of Haw-
thornden, and gentleman-usher to
King James, being knighted when
James succeeded to the English
crown. Drummond 's mother was
Susannah Fowler, sister of William
Fowler, who was secretary to
Queen Anne, the queen-consort,
and a sonneteer and translator of
Petrarch, Drummond was edu-
cated at the Edinburgh High, School
and at Edinburgh University, which
had been founded only three years
before he was born, lie graduated
M.A, in 1605. In the following
year he went to the Continent to
study law, remaining some time
in London on his way. He attended
law lectures at Bourgcs and Paris,
WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN 277
but his real interests lay in art and
literature. When his father died
in 1610 and left him at the age of
twenty-five laird of Hawthornden,
he abandoned the law, which he
had never taken very seriously,
and devoted himself to a life of
study. Like most poets of the
time, he composed a lament upon
the death of Prince Henry; it was
entitled Tears on the Death of
Moeliades, and was published in
1613. Drummond became more
and more of a recluse. In 1615
a tragedy occurred which over-
shadowed his life for many years.
He fell in love with Mary Cunning-
ham of Barns, and she died on the
eve of their wedding. Drummond
was prostrated with grief, and
remained single for seventeen years.
In 1616 he published a collection
of poems, many of which were
connected with his bereavement.
In 1617 he wrote a poem entitled
The River of Forth Feasting,, in
order to celebrate James's visit to
his northern kingdom. Late in
the following year he met Ben
Jonson, almost certainly for the
first time, and entertained him for
a fortnight or so at Hawthornden
about Christmas-time. The notes
which he took of Jonson's table-
talk, traditionally but not very
happily known as Conversations
(non rixa est, ubi fu pulsas, ego
vapulo tantuni), were not intended
for publication, and were not in
fact published until 1711, and
then in a severely " edited " form.
A more correct text, edited from
a transcript of Drummond's MS.
made by the antiquary Sir Robert
Sibbald (1641-1722) about 1710,
was published by David Laing in
1842, and a fully annotated edition
by Dr. R. F. Patterson appeared
in 1923. An ill-advised attack on
the authenticity of the Conversations
was made by Mr. C. L. Stainer in
1925; but Mr. Stainer did not
prove any of his allegations, and
his case was laughed out of court.
In 1620 Drummond had a serious
illness, and in 1623 he published
a volume of melancholy verse,
Flowei's of Zion y and a beautiful
piece of reflective prose, A Cypress
Grove , w r hich will bear comparison
with Sir Thomas Browne. In
1627 a pa-tent for various mechanical
devices, mostly military appliances,
including a kind of tank and a per-
petual-motion machine, was granted
to Drummond. In the same year
he presented five hundred books
to Edinburgh University. In 1632
he married Elizabeth Logan, on
account, it is said, of her resem-
blance to his early love. He had a
large family, and in 1638 repaired
his house " ut honesto otio quies-
ceret ", as the inscription says. He
interested himself in genealogy,
and was thus led on to study his-
tory. As Bishop Sage says (1711),
" Our Author had a particular
Respect and Fondness for his
Name, and this seems to have been
one of the Reasons he had for
writing his History, which also
is pretty evident from his own
Dedication of it to John Earl of
Perth ". In that dedication he
apologizes " that I, who the most
part of my life have been writing
about small things in verse, should
adventure to write about so many
great and weighty affairs in prose ".
His History of the Lives and Reigns
of the Five James's, Kings of Scot-
land, from the Year 1423 to the
year 1542 is well-written but is of
small value to students of Scottish
history. In the stirring events
278 WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF IIAWTHORNDEN
before and during the Civil War,
Drummond, though an ardent
Royalist, took little part. He circu-
lated a tract called Irene in 1638, in
which he urged upon all parties
the need for moderation, and wrote
many other political tracts of small
literary value. The execution of
King Charles is said to have
hastened his end, and he died on
4th December, 1649.
Though a thorough-going and
patriotic Scot, Drummond wrote
his poems in the purest English,
and was a pioneer in the use of the
southern idiom among the literary
circles of Edinburgh. His best
work is to be found in his sonnets,
in which he showed himself to be
an admirer of Petrarch. Owing
doubtless to the secluded life which
he led, he was never abreast of the
literary fashion of the moment,
and was a Die-hard in literature as
well as in politics. As his editors
of 1711 say of him, "lie was . .'.
a quaint and delicate Poet, and a
Master and Jucl^e of all polite
Learning. . . In a Word, we
may justly say, he deserves a very
Considerable Place among the Best
and Learn'dest Men of his Age ".
[L. K. Kastncr, The Poetical
Works of Drummond of llatvthornden
(S.T.S,); David Masson, Drum-
mond of Hawthomdcn.}
From "A Cypress Grove"
But is this Life so great a Good, that the Loss of it should be so
dear unto Man? If it be, the meanest Creatures of Nature thus are
happy; for they live no less than he. If it be so great a Felicity, how
is it esteemed of Man himself at so small a Rate, that for so poor Gains,
nay one disgraceful Word, he will not stand to lose it? What' Excellency
is there in it, for which he should desire it perpetual, and repine to be
at Rest, and return to his old Grandmother Dust? Of what Moment are
the Labours and Actions of it, that the Interruption and leaving off of
them should be to him so distasteful, and with such grudging Lamen-
tations received?
Is not the Entering into Life, Weakness? the Continuing, Sorrow?
In the one, he is exposed to all the Injuries of the Elements, and like
a condemned Trespasser (as if it were a Fault to come to the Light)
no sooner born than manacled and bound; in the other, he is restlessly,
like a JBall, tossed in the Tennis-Court of this World, when he is in
the brightest Meridian of his Glory, there ncedcth nothing to destroy
him, but to let him fall his own Height; a Reflex of the Sun, a Blast of
Wind, nay the Glance of an Eye, is sufficient to undo him: How can
that be any great Matter, which so small Instruments and slender Actions
are Masters of?
His Body is but a Mass of discording Humours, composed and
elemented by the conspiring Influences of superior Lights, which, tho'
agreeing for a Trace of Time, yet can never be made uniform, and kept
in a just Proportion. To what Sickness is it subject unto, beyond those
WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN 279
of the other sensible Creatures; no Part of it being which is not parti-
cularly infected and afflicted by some one, nay every Part with many;
yea so many, that the Masters of that Art can scarce number or name
them: So that the Life of divers of the meanest Creatures of Nature hath,
with great Reason, by the most Wise, been preferred to the natural Life
of Man: And we should rather wonder, how so frail a Matter should
so long endure, than how so soon dissolve and decay.
Are the Actions of most Part of Men, much differing from the exer-
cise of the Spider; that pitcheth Toyls, and is Tapist, to prey on the
smaller Creatures, and for the weaving of a scornful Web eviscerateth
it self many Days, which when with much industry finished, a little
Puff of Wind carieth away both the Work and the Worker? Or, are they
not like the Plays of Children? Or (to hold them at their highest Rate)
as is a May-Game, or, what is more earnest, some Study at Chesse? Every
Day we rise and lie down, apparel and disapparel ourselves, weary our
Bodies and refresh them, which is a Circle of idle Travels and Labours
(like Penelope's Task) unprofitably renewed. Some Time we are in a
Chase after a fading Beauty; now we seek to enlarge our Bounds, increase
our Treasure, feeding poorly, to purchase what we must leave to those
we never saw, or (happily) to a Fool, or a Prodigal Heir. Raised with
the Wind of Ambition, we court that idle Name of Honour, not con-
sidering how they, who are mounted aloft in the highest Ascendant of
Earthly Glory, are but like tortured Ghosts, wandring with golden
Fetters in glistering Prisons, having Fear and Danger their unseparable
Executioners, in the midst of Multitudes rather guarded than regarded.
They whom opaque Imaginations and inward Melancholy, have made
weary of the World, though they have withdrawn themselves from the
Course of vulgar Affairs, by vain Contemplations, and curious Searches,
are more disquieted, and live a Life worse than others; their W r it being
too sharp to give them a Taste of their present Infelicity, and to increase
their Woes ; while they of a more shallow and simple Conceit, have Want
of Knowledge and Ignorance of themselves, for a Remedy and Antidote
against all the Calamities of Life.
Madrigal
Sweet Rose, whence is this Hue
Which does all Hues excel?
Whence this most fragrant Smell?
And whence this Form and gracing Grace in you?
In flowry Paestum's Fields perhaps you grew,
Or Hybla's Hills you bred,
Or Odoriferous Enna's Plains you fed,
WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF IIAWTIIORNDEN
Or Tmolua, or where Boar young Adon slew;
Or hath the Queen of Love you dy'd of new
In that dear Blood, which makes you look so red?
No, none of those, hut cause more high you Mist;
My Lady's Breast you bore, her Lips you lust.
Flowers of Sion, 5
Of this fair Volume which we World do Name
If we the Sheets and Leaves could turn with care,
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the Art and Wisdom rare,
Find out his Power which wildest Pow'rs doth tame,
His Providence extending every where,
His Justice which proud Rebels doth not spare,
In every Page, no, Period of the same.
But silly we like foolish, Children rest,
Well plcas'd with colour \l Velum, Leaves of Gold,
Fair dangling Ribbands, leaving what is best,
Oa the great Writer's Sense ne're taking hold;
Or if by Chance we stay our Minds on ought,
It is sonic Picture on the Margin wrought.
Madrigal
My Thoughts hold mortal Strife,
I do detest my Life,
And with lamenting Cries
Peace to my Soul to bring,
Oft call that Prince, which here doth Monarchixe,
But he grim grinning King,
Who Cativcs scorns, and doth the Blest surprise,
Late having deckt with Beauty's Rose his Tomb,
Disdains to crop a Weed, and will not come,
Sonnet
Night, clear Night, dark and gloomy Day!
wofull Waking! 0" Soul-pleasing Sleep!
sweet Conceits which in my Brains did creep !
Yet sowr Conceits which went so soon away.
WILLIAM DRUMR10ND OF HAWTHORNDEN 281
A Sleep I had more then poor Words can say,
For clos'd in Arms (me thought) I did thee keep,
A sorry Wretch plung'd in Misfortunes deep.
Am I not wak'd? when Light doth Lies bewray.
O that that Night had never still been black!
O that that Day had never yet begun!
And you mine Eyes would yet no Time saw Sun!
To have your Sun in such a Zodiack:
Lo, what is good of Life is but a Dream,
When Sorrow is a never-ebbing Stream.
GEORGE WITHER
(1588-1667)
GEORGE WITHER was born at Bent-
worth, in Hampshire, in 1588. He
was educated at Magdalen College,
Oxford, where he did not graduate.
In 1610 or thereabouts he settled
in London to study law, and in
1615 he became a member of
Lincoln's Inn. His interests, how-
ever, lay in literature rather than
in law. He wrote, as so many of
his contemporaries did, a lament
on the death of Prince Henry; but
his lament took the unusual form
of a sonnet-sequence. His poem
on the marriage of Princess Eliza-
beth won him some favour at
court, which stood him in good
stead in some of the difficulties
which he experienced later. His
first satirical work, Abuses stript and
zvhipty appeared in 1613; although
its satire is general and, as satires
go, mild, it caused his imprison-
ment in the Marshalsea for several
months. While he was in prison
he wrote one of his best and most
attractive poems, The Shepherd's
Hunting , a collection of eclogues.
Fidelia, a delightfully fresh and
charming poem, appeared in 1617.
The best known of Wither's poems,
the famous Shall I, wasting in
despair, appeared in a later edition
of Fidelia. Wither's second attempt
at satire, Wither's Motto,, Nee habeo,
nee careOj nee euro, was no more
successful than his first attempt,
and caused its author's return to
the Marshalsea in 1621. A love-
poem, entitled Faire-Virtue, the
Mistresse of PhiFArete, appeared
in 1622. At this point Wither's
career as a poet virtually ended.
He lived for forty-five years longer,
and acquired some notoriety as a
Puritan, a soldier, and an indefa-
tigable writer of pious or political
productions both in prose and
verse. It is not necessary to name
all or even many of his later and
less worthy writings. Halelujah
(1641), a collection of pious verse,
shows some of his old power. His
Hymnes and Songs of the Church
(1623) was ordered by letters patent
to be inserted in every copy of the
semi-official Psalm-book in meeter,
but Wither derived no satisfaction
282
GEORGE WITHER
and considerable trouble from this
monopoly. Wither stated his case
In an interesting enough prose tract,
The Scholar's Purgatory (1624).
Britain's Remembrancer (1628) is a
long poem in eight cantos of much
solemnity but little merit, A Col-
lection of Emblems (1635) consisted of
poems written to fit engravings, and
so of small literary value. In 1639
Wither served as captain of horse
against the Scottish covenanters;
but in 1642 he raised a troop of
horse for the Parliament, and was
appointed captain and commander
of Farnham Castle. He was
captured by the Royalists but
released by the intervention of
Sir John Denham, who said he
wished to make sure, by the pre-
servation of Wither's life, that he
would not himself be the worst
poet in England. Wither subse-
quently became a major, but his
military career was undistinguished.
His writings rapidly increased in
number and in worthlessness. He
was appointed commissioner for
the sale of the king's goods in 1653,
and clerk in the statute office of
the Court of Chancery in 1655, but
he remained dissatisfied with his
lot. After the Restoration he was
imprisoned for more than a year,
and continued his career as poetaster
and pamphleteer both in prison
and out of it. His long life came to
an end in 1667.
Wither (who was often called
Withers) became almost proverbial,
especially among cavalier poets, for
being what Aristophanes calls <v a
pourcr forth o f weak washy twaddle ' '
(Ky)owoxuT/)oA.?//)atQs). His detrac-
tors forgot entirely what he
himself chose to consider the sins
and offences of his youth his
light and graceful pastorals and
his pleasing satires. Between his
best and his worst work, as between
the best and the worst work of
Wordsworth, a great gulf is fixed,
so that it is hard to recognize the
dainty pastoral poet in the pious
and prolix platitudinist. To per-
petrate a pun which he himself
sanctioned, age had the power to
wither him. No other poet im-
presses on us so strongly that
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak
and cold;
Youth is wild and age is tame.
The restoration of the name of
Wither, to the roll of English poets
was mainly due to the loving
advocacy of Charles Lamb.
[The Spenser Society's edition
of Wither's works; F. Sidgwick,
The Poetry of George Wither; E.
Arbor, An English Garner.]
The Lover's Resolution
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?
GEORGE WITHER 283
Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
Who without them dares her woo ;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go ;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
284
WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK
WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK
1 1643 )
ever performed, and it was not
printed until 1773. The second
half of Browne's life did not
resemble Withers somewhat tur-
bulent later career, for he led a life
of calm placidity; but his literary
output seems to have ceased. In
1624 he became tutor to the future
Earl of Carnarvon, who was killed
at Newbury. lie took his M.A. at
Oxford in that year, lie somehow
or other, possibly by means of a
judicious marriage, was able to
purchase an estate near Dorking.
lie died in 1643, or possibly in
1645.
Browne was a devoted admirer
and follower of Sidney and of
Spenser, but especially of Spenser.
His Brilannitfs Paslorals is enter-
taining and pleasing if read in the
right spirit. If it is read for the
story, the puzzled reader will soon
throw it aside in disgust, when he
finds himself lost in a maxe of
unintelligible allegory. The poem
should be read for its beautiful
descriptive passages, especially the
descriptions of "country life and
scenery. Many of these passages
take the form of similes. They will
repay constant: reading, and the
persevering reader, using them as
stepping-stones, may manage to
wade through the whole poem
with considerable pleasure. The
famous epitaph on the Countess of
Pembroke, Underneath this sable
hearse, is sometimes attributed to
Browne, sometimes to Jonson. The
evidence cither way is not decisive,
and unless more is discovered, the
problem of authorship must be
WILLIAM BROWNE, usually called
" of Tavistock " for purposes of
identification, was born at Tavistock
in 1591, He was educated at Tavi-
stock Grammar School and at
Exeter College, Oxford, the west-
country college. His career in
several respects resembles that of
Wither, who was his friend. lie
did not graduate; lie entered at
Clifford's Inn and migrated to the
Inner Temple, and must have
served an apprenticeship to the
law, probably without enthusiasm.
He also began his career as poet
by writing an elegy on Prince
Henry. The first book of his best
work, Britannia 9 s Pastorals,, ap-
peared in 1613, when he was only
twenty-two years of age. The
second book appeared in 1616;
but the third, which lacks the
finishing touches, was not printed
until 1852, more than two hundred
years after its author's death. In
1614 appeared a small volume
entitled The Shepherd's Pfpe> con-
taining seven eclogues, the number
being fixed by the number of reeds
in the syrinx or Pan's pipe. Browne
was a keen antiquarian, and in-
corporated in his first eclogue a
passage of Occleve (q.v.), whose
name and work had fallen into
almost complete oblivion. Besides
Browne's seven eclogues, this little
volume contains eclogues by Chris-
topher Brooke, Wither, and Davies
of Hereford. Browne wrote in
1615 The Inner Temple Masque,
dealing with the story of Ulysses
and Circe. It is a beautiful masque,
but it is uncertain whether it was
WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK 285
ded as insoluble. Browne has Works of William Browne; Sir
r s been loved by other poets; Edmund Gosse, The Jacobean Poets]
n imitated him, and Keats, F. W. Moorman, William Brownp,
in some respects resembled his Britannia's Pastorals; Sir A.
was an ardent admirer. T. Quiller-Couch, Adventures in
or don Goodwin, The Poetical Criticism^
Britannia's Pastorals
Book II, Song i
Glide soft, ye silver floods,
And every spring:
Within the shady woods
Let no bird sing!
Nor from the grove a turtle-dove
Be seen to couple with her love;
But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,
Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.
But (of great Thetis* train)
Ye mermaids fair,
That on the shores do plain
Your sea-green hair,
As ye in trammels knit your locks,
Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks
In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell
How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.
Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds,
To move a wave;
But if with troubled minds
You seek his grave;
Know 'tis as various as yourselves,
Now in the deep, then on the shelves,
His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,
Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.
Had he Arion-like
Been judged to drown,
He on his lute could strike
So rare a sowne,
A thousand dolphins would have come
And jointly strive to bring him home.
WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK
But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell,
Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell.
Great Neptune, hear a swain!
His coffin take,
And \vitli a golden chain
For pity make
It fast unto a rock near land!
Where cv'ry calmy morn I'll stand,
And ere one sheep out of my fold I toll,
Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend fore well.
Ah heavy shepherd, whosoe'er thou be,
Quoth fair Marina, I do pity thee:
For who by death is in a true friend cross 7 cl,
Till he be earth, he half himself hath lost.
More happy deem I thec, lamented swain,
Whose body lies among the scaly train,
Since 1 shall never think that thou canst die,
Whilst Willy lives, or any poetry:
For well it seems in versing he hath skill,
And though he, aided from the sacred hill,
To thcc \vith him no equal life can give,
Yet by his pen thou may 'at for ever live.
With this a beam of sudden brightness Hies
Upon her face, so dazzling her clear eyes,
That neither flower nor grass which by her grew
She could discern cloth'd in their perfect hue.
For as a wag, to sport with such as pass,
Taking the sunbeams in a looking-glass,
Conveys the rays into the eyes of one
Who, blinded, either stumbles at a stone,
Or as he dazzled walks the peopled streets,
Is ready justling every man he meets:
So then Apollo did in glory cast
His bright beams on a rock with gold cnchas'd,
And thence the swift reflection of their light
Blinded those eyes, the chief est stars of night,
When straight a thick-swoll'n cloucl (as if it sought
In beauty's mind to have a thankful thought)
Inveil'd the lustre of great Titan's car,
And she beheld from whence she sat, not far,
Cut on a high-brow'd rock, inlaid with gold,
This epitaph, and read it, thus enroll'd:
WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK
287
In depth of waves long hath Alexis slept,
So choicest jewels are the closest kept;
Whose death the land had seen, but it appears
To countervail his loss men wanted tears.
So here he lies, whose dirge each mermaid sings,
For whom the clouds weep rain, the Earth her springs.
(Lines 242-318.)
SIR HENRY WOTTON
(1568-1639)
Sm HENRY WOTTON was born at
Boughton Hall, Kent, in 1568. He
was educated at Winchester and
at New College, Oxford, but he
subsequently migrated to Queen's
College, whence he graduated B.A.
in 1588. He then devoted some
seven years to foreign travel, and
returned in 1595, a scholar and a
man of the world in the best sense
of the term. He became a kind of
secret agent to the Earl of Essex,
and when Essex lost the queen's
favour, Wotton thought it prudent
to leave England and settle in
Venice. Though he was not impli-
cated in Essex's plot, he did not
return to England until after the
death of the queen. While at
Venice he wrote his important
prose work, The State of Christen-
dom, which, however, was not
published until 1657. In 1602
Ferdinand the Great, Duke of
Tuscany, intercepted certain letters
which discovered a design to kill
James VI of Scotland, and sent
Wotton in the disguise of an Italian
to Scotland, with letters and Italian
antidotes against poison. He stayed
three months in Scotland, and was
well received by the king, who
in gratitude, when he became
King of England, knighted Wotton
and appointed him ambassador to
Venice. Wotton held this post for
almost twenty years (not consecu-
tive), returning home finally in
1624. He upset and almost ruined
his career by an inopportune joke
by defining an ambassador as
" an honest man, sent to lie abroad
for the good of his country ". This
epigram ruined his chance of being
appointed secretary to the king
after the death of Lord Salisbury.
When he finally left Venice in 1624,
he was without money or the means
of earning it. He published a small
and unimportant book on archi-
tecture, a paraphrase of Vitruvius.
On 26th July, 1624, he was appointed
Provost of Eton, and held this post
until his death in 1639. The last
years of his life were tranquil, and
he spent much of his leisure fish-
ing with his friend Izaak Walton.
He started several literary projects
which he did not carry out a
History of England, a Life of Luther ^
and a Life of Donne. He wrote letters
of much interest to various corre-
spondents. The main collection of
his works, Reliquiae Wottonianae,
preceded by Walton's memoir,
appeared posthumously in 1651.
288
SIR HENRY WOTTON
Wolton had the good fortune to
write one exquisite and one first-
rate poem, and to have his life
written by Walton. Walton's
tribute was written not only in the
spirit of friendship, but in the
spirit of brotherly love which one
lishermim feels for another. As u
man of letters Wotton was some-
thing of an amateur, though lie was
a man of light and leading in his
own generation. But he will always
be remembered as the author of
You meaner beau lies of Ihc night and
as one of the most eminent English
" biograpbees ".
[Ixauk Walton, Lives] L. P.
Smith, Life, and Lcllm of Sir Henry
Wot fan] Sir A. W. \Vard, Sir Henry
Wo I Ion, a tliugru[>hical Sketch.]
On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common, people of the skies;
What are you when the moon shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking 1 your passions understood
By your weak accents; \vluit\s your praise,
When Philomel, her voice shall raise?
Yon violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen,
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me if she were not designed
The eclipse and glory of her kind?
The Character of a Happy Life
iA, Jv *f
How happy is he born and taught
That scrveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill ;
SIR HENRY WOTTON
Whose passions not his masters are ;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice ; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed ;
W 7 hose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.
This man is freed from senile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.
Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife
He first deceased; she for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died.
RICHARD CORBET
(1582-1635)
RICHARD CORBET was the son of a
gardener of Ewell, in Surrey, and
was born in 1582. He was educated
at Westminster School, Broadgates
Hall (Pembroke College), Oxford,
and Christ Church. He graduated
BA. in 1602, M.A. in 1605, and
VOL. ii.
BD. in 1617. He had a distin-
guished career as don and church-
man, becoming Dean of Christ
Church in 1620, Bishop of Oxford
in 1624, and Bishop of Norwich in
1632. He was an intimate friend of
Ben Jonson, for whom he probably
43
290
RICHARD CORBET
obtained the honorary degree of
M.A. at Oxford, and he was also,
as Ben's friends were wont to be,
a lover of conviviality and a hater
of Puritanism. Corbet did not
allow his high spiritual ollicc to
Interfere unduly with his love of
wine and practical joking, and
many legends gathered round him.
He was in the habit of visiting the
wine-cellar with his chaplain, doff-
ing his episcopal vestments, and
abandoning himself to enjoyment
of the generous liquor. On one
occasion, when lie was a Doctor of
Divinity, he met at Abingdon
Cross a ballad-vender who could
not sell his wares; so he borrowed
the man's leather jerkin and sang
the ballads so lustily that the stock
was soon disposed of. His hand-
some appearance and well-toned
voice doubtless helped him in this
venture.
Corbet's poems (published 1647)
arc not: great literature, but are
most pleasant to read, reflecting as
they do his good-humoured per-
sonality. Fairies Farewell is per-
haps the best known of them; but
Itcr liowak and the Journey to
France are both excellent poems
of their kind. The lines to his
three-year-old son are most touch-
ing; it is melancholy to have to
record that that son was a failure
in life, and sponged upon his rich
acquaintances.
Fairies Farewell
Farewell, rewards and fairies!
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old abbeys,
The fairies* lost command!
They did but change priests' babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children sprung from thence,
Are now grown Puritancs;
Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your dcmains.
At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad;
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;
RICHARD CORBET 291
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily merrily went their tabour
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late, Elizabeth,
And later, Janies came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
By w T hich we note the fairies
Were of the old profession;
Their songs w r ere Ave -Maries,
Their dances were procession.
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled;
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure;
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished sure;
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue:
Oh, how the Commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!
293
JOHN DONNE
"OHN DONNE
*<
(1573^1631)
JOHN DONNE was bom in 1573,
His name was pronounced as if
spelt " Dunn ", and was humor-
ously latinixcd as " Johannes
Factus ". His father was an iron-
monger of Welsh extraction, and
his mother was a daughter of John
Heywood (q.v.) the epigrammatist,
and a grand-niece of Sir Thomas
More. Donne's mother, therefore,
was a Roman Catholic, and Donne
was educated in the principles of
the old faith. lie was entered at
Hart Hall, Oxford, at the early
age of eleven, probably to avoid
subscribing the oath of supremacy,
He did not graduate, nor did he
take a degree at Cambridge, whither
he migrated to complete his studies.
In 1593 he was entered at Lincoln's
Inn, though he appears to have
been a member of Thavies Inn
previously. His legal studies were
probably interrupted by the com*
position of much of his poetry, as
Ben Jonson affirmed that Donne
had " written all his best; pieces
ere he was 25 years old ". In 1596
he served as a volunteer in the
expedition to Cadiz, and in the
next year he went to the Azores,
being accompanied on both occa-
sions by his friend Sir Henry
Wotton (q.v.). On the second of
these voyages they made friends
with Sir Thomas Egerton the
younger, who secured Donne's
appointment as private secretary
to his father, Sir Thomas Egerton
the elder (afterwards Lord "Ellcs-
mere and Viscount Brackley), who
had been appointed Lord Keeper
in 1596. A busy and lucrative
career seemed to be opening for
Donne, but unfortunately he spoilt
his chances by clandestinely marry-
ing Anne More, his master's niece
by marriage. For this offence he
was dismissed from his post and
imprisoned; for many years he
and his wife lived in, considerable
poverty, and he had no very definite
means of livelihood. He lived for
a^ time with his wife's cousin,
Francis "Wooley, and for a time
with Sir Robert Drury, whose
favour he gained by writing two
extravagantly adulatory poems on
the death of his only daughter.
These were the first of Donne's
poems to be printed in, his life-
time, nor were many of his writings
published until two years after his
death, though most of his poems
circulated .freely in manuscript,
His satires and elegies were ex-
tremely popular. I te assisted
Thomas Morton, afterwards Bishop
of Durham, to rout; the Jesuits in
argument, and. wrote a curious
prose tract named Biallianatos in
defence of suicide, and another
polemical work, by royal command,
entitled Pseudo-Martyr. In 1615
Donne at last; yielded to the king's
reiterated wish that he should be-
come a clergyman. lie was held
back from taking orders not only
by scruples about his unworthiness,
but by hopes that some lucrative
lay position might still be found
for him. As soon as he complied
with the lung's desire, his pecu-
niary dif Realties ceased. In 1616
he became divinity reader at Lin-
coln's Inn, and in 1621 he was
JOHN DONNE
From the painting by (or after) Isaac Oliver in the National
Portrait Gallery
16
JOHN DONNE
293
appointed Dean of St. Paul's. He
threw himself with characteristic
fervour into his new career, and
he was marked down for a bishopric
when his fatal illness began its
course. His sermons were famous,
and w T e do not possess any more
splendid examples of pulpit elo-
quence. They are no mere draw-
ing out of the staple of verbosity;
the magnificence of the language
is equalled by the loftiness of the
thought.
Donne's writings have suffered
somewhat from the gap of over
thirty years which lay between the
composition and the publication
of some of them. Many poems by
other hands were fathered on him,
and his genuine poems are fre-
quently corrupted. But when all
possible allowance is made for
textual errors, his style still remains
tortured and crabbed, and his
metre is frequently unmelodious.
His lines on the death of Prince
Henry were written, Jonson tells
us, to match Sir Edward Herbert in
obscureness. Sometimes he can
write as clearly and tersely as any
of his contemporaries; but often
he is laboured and difficult. He
was the founder and leader of that
school of poetry which Dr. Johnson
not very aptly named " metaphy-
sical ". The absurdities of this
school are quite as great in their
own way as those of the Euphuists;
similia dissimilibus comparantur, and
all bounds of common sense are
passed in a desperate attempt to
be clever at all costs. The pecu-
liarities of this school are parti-
cularly displeasing to those who
admire the austere self-restraint
of the great Greek poets. Donne's
influence on English poetry was
almost wholly maleficent, though
some of his poems are beyond
criticism. His Satires, written
between 1593 and 1597, are rough
and harsh, and follow the tradition
of Persius rather than that of
Horace. Pope " versified " two of
these satires, to make them more
in accordance with eighteenth -cen-
tury taste. His Songs are mostly
real songs, intended to be set to
music and sung. His Elegies are
more typical of his strange and
contradictory genius. The Progress
of the Soul, Poema Satyricon is an
incomplete, sombre, and somewhat
disgusting poem on metempsy-
chosis. The Storm and The Calm
are among the best of Donne's
Letters, both being reminiscences
of his expeditions in 1596 and
1597. His sacred poems are of
great excellence.
Jonson's opinions of Donne are
interesting. He considered him
the first poet in the world in some
things; but thought that "Done,
for not keeping of accent, deserved
hanging", and that " Done himself,
for not being understood, would
perish ". There is much truth in
these seemingly contradictory re-
marks. Donne's poems too often
" run like a brewer's cart upon the
stones, quae per salebras, altaque
saxa cadunt ' ". His thought, how-
ever, is often great and not merely
quaint, and shines through the
obscurity of his style. Professor
Saintsbury has said somewhere
that every reader of Donne is
" either an adept or an outsider
born"; it is not possible for a
member of the latter class to write so
as to satisfy a member of the former.
[Walton's masterly life of Donne
is a great but not entirely reliable
biography. Walton knew Dr.
Donne but not Jack Donne (the
JOHN DONNE
mtithcsis of persons " is Donne's Donne; K, M. Simpson, A Stitdv
n). II. J. C. Gricrson, The of Donntfs Prose Works; G, L
ems of John Donne; Sir Edmund Keyues, The tiiblhgraphy of John
)ssc, Life and Letters of Joint Donnc*\
The Sun Rising
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys, and sour prentices,
Go tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, ao reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with, a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late, tell me,
Whether both th> Inclias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those Kings whom thou saw 'at yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here In one bed lay.
She is all States, and all Princes, T,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour's mimic; All wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as \ve,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done In wanning us.
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
This bed thy centre Is, these walls, thy sphere.
JOHN DONNE 295
Song
Go, and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root.
Tell me, where all past years are,
Or who cleft the Devil's foot,
Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind .
If thou beest borne to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear
No w r here
Lives a w T oman true, and fair.
If thou findst one, let me know,
Such a Pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
WiUbe
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
The Undertaking
I have done one braver thing
Than all the Worthies did,
And yet a braver thence doth spring,
Which is, to keep that hid.
It were but madness now t' impart
The skill of specular stone,
When he which can have learn'd the art
To cut it, can find none.
JOHN DONNE
So, if I now should utter this,
Others (because no more
Such stuff to work upon, there is,)
Would love but as before.
But he who loveliness within
Hath found, all outward loathes,
For he who colour loves, and skin,
Loves but their oldest clothes.
If, as I have, you also do
Vertue attir'd in woman see,
And dare love that, and say so too,
And forget the lie and She;
And if this love, though placed so,
From profane men you hide,
Which will no faith on this bestow,
Or, if they do, deride:
Then you have done a braver thing
Than all the Worthies did;
And a braver thence will spring,
Which is, to keep that hid.
The Canonization
For Goclsalce hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five grey hairs, or ruin'cl fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with Arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his honour, or his grace,
Or the King's real, or his stamped face
Contemplate, what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who's injur'd by my love?
What merchants' ships nave my sighs drown 'd?
Who says my tears have overflow *d his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy Bill?
JOHN DONNE
Soldiers find wars, and Lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such "by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We are Tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find th' Eagle and the Dove.
The Phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us, \ve two being one, are it.
So to one neutral thing both sexes fit,
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of Chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
'The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love:
And thus invoke us; You whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize,)
Countries, Towns, Courts: Beg from above
A pattern of your love!
Song
Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter Love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best,
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign 'd deaths to die;
JOHN DONNE
Yesternight the Sun went hence,
And yet Is here to-day,
lie hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall!
But come bad chance,
And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o'er us to advance.
When ihou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away,
When thou weep 'at, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
Thou art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill,
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil;
But think that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.
From the cc Sermons "
ALL MUST DIE
not man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death,
t is our birth, but a breaking of prison? As soon as we were
by God, our very apparel was an Emblem of death. In the
dead beasts, he covered the skins of dying men, As soon as
us on work, our very occupation was an Emblem of death; It
JOHN DONNE 299
was to dig the earth; not to dig pitfalls for other men, but graves for
ourselves. Hath any man here forgot to-day, that yesterday is dead?
And the Bell tolls for to-day, and will ring out anon; and for as much
of every one of us, as appertains to this day. Quotidie morlmur, et tainen
nos esse aeternos putamus, says S. Hierome] We die every day, and we
die all the day long; and because we are not absolutely dead, we call
that an eternity, an eternity of dying: And is there comfort in that state?
why, that is the state of hell itself, Eternal dying, and not dead,
But for this there is enough said, by the Moral man; (that we may
respite divine proofs, for divine points anon, for our several Resur-
rections) for this death is merely natural, and it is enough that the moral
man says, Mors lex, tributum, officium mortaliuni. First it is lex, you
were born under that law, upon that condition to die: so it is a rebellious
thing not to be content to die, it opposes the Law. Then it is Tributum,
an imposition which nature the Queen of this world lays upon us, and
which she will take, when and where she list; here a young man, there
an old man, here a happy, there a miserable man; And so it is a seditious
thing not to be content to die, it opposes the prerogative. And lastly,
it is Officium, men are to have their turns, to take their time, and then
to give way by death to successors; and so it is Incivile, inofficiosum,
not to be content to die, it opposes the frame and form of government.
It comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes. The
ashes of an Oak in the Chimney, are no Epitaph of that Oak, to tell
me how high or how large that was; It tells me not what flocks it sheltered
while it stood, nor what men it hurt when it fell. The dust of great
persons' graves is speechless too, it says nothing, it distinguishes nothing:
As soon the dust of a wretch whom thou wouldest not, as of a Prince
whom thou couldest not look upon, will trouble thine eyes, if the wind
blow it thither; and when a whirlwind hath blown the dust of the Church-
yard into the Church, and the man sweeps out the dust of the Church
into the Churchyard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to
pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble Hour, and this the
yeomanly, this the Plebeian bran.
Donne's Last Sermon
In all our periods and transitions in this life, are so many passages
from death to death; our very birth and entrance into this life, is exitus
a morte, an issue from death, for in our mother's womb we are dead so,
as that we do not know we live, not as much as we do in our sleep, neither
is there any grave so close, or so putrid a prison, as the womb would be
unto us, if we stayed in it beyond our time, or died there before our time.
In the grave the worms do not kill us, we breed and feed, and then kill
those worms, which we ourselves produced. In the womb the dead child
3 oo JOHN DONNE
kills the Mother that: conceived it, and is n murderer, uny a parricide
even after it is dead. And, if we be not dead so in the womb, so as that
being dead we kill her that gave us our first life, our life of vegetation
yet we arc dead so, as David's Idols are dead. In the womb we have
eyes and sec not, ears and hear not; There in the womb we are fitted for
works of darkness, all the while deprived of light: And there in the
womb we arc taught cruelty, by being fed with blood, and may he damned,
though we be never born.
We have a winding sheet in our Mother's womb, which grows with
us from our conception, and we come into the world, wound up in that
winding sheet, [or we come to seek a grave; And us prisoners discharged
of actions may He for fees; so when the womb hath discharged us, yet
we are bound to it by cords of flesh by such a string, as that we cannot
go thence, nor stay there; w r e celebrate our own funerals with cries, even
at our birth; as though our threescore and ten years' life were spent
in our mothers' labour, and our circle made up in the first point thereof;
we beg our Baptism, with another Sacrament, with tears; And we come
into a world that lasts many ages, but we last not.
This whole world is but an universal churchyard, but our common
grave, and the life and motion that the greatest persons have in it, is
but as the shaking of buried bodies in their grave, by an earthquake,
That which we call life, is but Hebdomad a morlhtm, a week of death,
seven clays, seven periods of our life spent in dying, u dying seven times
over, and there is an end. Our birth dies in infancy, and our infancy
dies in youth, and youth and the rest die in age, and age also dies, and de-
termines all. Nor do all these, youth out of infancy, or age out of youth
arise so, as a Phoenix out of the ashes of another Pluruix formerly dead,
but as a wasp or a serpent out of carrion, or as a Snake out of dung.
Our youth is worse than our infancy, and our age worse than our youth,
Our youth is hungry and thirsty, after those sins, which our infancy
knew not; And our age is sorry and angry, that it cannot pursue those
sins which our youth did; and besides, all the way, so many deaths, that
is, so many deadly calamities accompany every condition, and every
period of this life, as that death itself would be an ease to them that stvJTer
them: Upon, this sense doth Job wish that (Joel had not given him an
issue from the first death, from the womb, Wherefore hast thon brought
me forth out of the womb? that I had given up the (/host, and no
eye seen me! I should have been as though I had not been,,
But for us that die now and sleep in the state of the dead, we must
all pass this posthumc death, this death after death, nay this death after
burial, this dissolution after dissolution, this death of corruption and
putrefaction, of vermiculation and incineration, of dissolution and dis-
persion in and from the grave, when these bodies that have been the
children of royal parents, and the parents of royal children, must say
JOHN DONNE 301
with Job, Corruption thou art my father, and to the Worm thou art
my mother and my sister. Miserable riddle, when the same worm must
be my mother, and my sister, and my self. Miserable Incest, when I
must be married to my mother and my sister, beget and bear that worm
which is all that miserable penury; when my mouth shall be filled with
dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the
ambitious man shall have no satisfaction, if the poorest alive tread upon
him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to
Princes, for they shall be equal but in dust. One dieth at his full strength,
being wholly at ease, and in quiet, and another dies In the bitterness
of his soul, and never eats with pleasure, but they lie down alike in the
dust, and the worm covers them; In Job and In Esay, It covers them and
is spread under them, the worm is spread under thee, and the worm
covers thee, There's the Mats and the Carpets that lie under, and there's
the State and the Canopy, that hangs over the greatest of the sons of
men; Even those bodies that were the temples of the holy Ghost, come
to this dilapidation, to ruin, to rubbish, to dust, even the Israel of the
Lord, and Jacob himself hath no other specification, no other denomina-
tion, but that, ver mis Jacob, Thou worm of Jacob. Truly the considera-
tion of this posthume death, this death after burial, that after God,
(with whom are the issues of death) hath delivered me from the death
of the womb, by bringing me into the world, and from the manifold
deaths of the world, by laying me in the grave, I must die again in an
Incineration of this flesh, and in a dispersion of that dust. That all that
Monarch, who spread over many nations alive, must in his dust lie In
a corner of that sheet of lead, and there, but so long as that lead will last,
and that private and retired man, that thought himself his own for ever,
and never came forth, must in his dust of the grave be published and,
(such are the revolutions of the graves) be mingled with the dust of every
highway, and of every dunghill, and swallowed In every puddle and
pond; This is the most inglorious and contemptible vilification, the
most deadly and peremptory nullification of man, that we can consider.
SIR THOMAS OVERBURY
(1581-1613)
SIR THOMAS OVERBURY was born Queen's College, Oxford, where he
at Compton- Scorpion, Warwick- graduated B.A. in 1598, and was a
shire, in 1581. His father was Sir member of the Middle Temple.
Nicholas Overbury, afterwards a In 1 60 1 he met Robert Carr, then
judge in Wales and Recorder of page to the Earl of Dunbar and
Gloucester. He was educated at afterwards King James's favourite,
30:
SIR THOMAS OVERBURY
and struck up a firm friendship
with him. When Curt broke his
arm at a tournament and rose to
prominence, Ovcrlnuy advised him
in all his affairs, so that the queen
nicknamed him Carr's " governor "
or tutor. Overbury was knighted in
1608. In 1 6 1 1 or thereabouts Carr
fell in love with Frances Howard,
who had married the third Earl of
Essex in 1606. Lady Essex sought
to annul her marriage in order that
she might marry Carr, and Over-
bury used all his influence to oppose
the match, though he had not
objected to the open adultery of the
pair. The countess contrived to
get Overbury imprisoned in the
Tower, and, not satisfied with that,
got poison served with his food.
The poison was so unskilfully ad-
ministered that it caused only ex-
cruciating agony, not death. After
being imprisoned three months
and seventeen clays, Overbury was
fatally poisoned by a clyster of
corrosive sublimate on *4th Sep-
tember, 1613. Ten days later the
Countess of Essex's marriage was
annulled, and on the following
Boxing Day she was married to
Carr, now Earl of Somerset. She
was not accused of the rnurcler of
Overbury until 1615; she pleaded
guilty, and was sentenced to death,
but received a pardon. Her less
guilty husband was imprisoned for
six years, and four of her humbler
accomplices were hanged.
Nothing in Overbury's life was
so important as his manner of
leaving it; there is no doubt that
his sensational death gave an adven-
titious fame to his writings, which
were all posthumously published.
His poem The Wife is a smooth
but undistinguished didactic poem
in six-line stanxas. The Characters,
which, were first printed in the
second edition of this poem, are
well written, but only in part the
work of Overbury. Twenty-one
appeared in this edition, and even
of them some were written by
" other learned Gentlemen his
friends ". In later editions the
number rose to a hundred, of
which but few can have been
Overbury's. Overbury was neither
a good man nor n great writer, but
he acquired a reputation as saint
and poet on account of his miser-
able end.
[A. Amos, The. Great Oycr of
Poisoning! E, A. Parry, The
bury Mystery,]
From " Characters "
A FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID
A fair and happy milkmaid is a country wench, that is so far from
making herself beautiful by art, that one look of hen* is able to put all
face-physic out of countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb
orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies
stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her know-
ledge. The lining of her apparel (which is herself) is far better than
outsides of tissue: for though she be not arrayed in the spoil of the
silkworm, she is decked in innoccncy, a far better wearing. She doth
not, with lying long abed, spoil both her complexion and conditions.
SIR THOMAS OVERBURY 303
Nature hath taught her too immoderate sleep is rust to the soul. She
rises therefore with chanticleer, her dame's cock, and at night makes
the lamb her curfew. In milking a cow, and straining the teats through
her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk-press makes the milk the whiter
or sweeter; for never came almond-glove or aromatic ointment on her
palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her feet when she
reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led prisoners by the same
hand that felled them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the year
long of June, like a new-made hay-cock. She makes her hand hard with
labour, and her heart soft with pity: and when winter evenings fall early
(sitting at her merry wheel) she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of
fortune. She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance
will not suffer her to do ill, seeing her mind is to do well. She bestows
her year's wages at next fair; and in choosing her garments, counts
no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and bee-hive are
all her physic and chirurgery, and she lives the longer for it. She dares
go alone, and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because
she means none : yet to say truth, she is never alone, for she is still accom-
panied with old songs, honest thoughts and prayers, but short ones;
yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing
idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell
them; only a Friday's dream is all her superstition: that she conceals
for fear of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is she may die in the
spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet.
A MERE SCHOLAR
A mere scholar is an intelligible ass, or a silly fellow in black, that
speaks sentences more familiarly than sense. The antiquity of his uni-
versity is his creed, and the excellency of his college (though but for
a match at football) an article of his faith. He speaks Latin better than
his mother-tongue; and is a stranger in no part of the world but his
own country. He does usually tell great stories of himself to small pur-
pose, for they are commonly ridiculous, be they true or false. His ambition
is, that he either is or shall be a graduate: but if ever he get a fellow-
ship, he has then no fellow. In spite of all logic he dare swear and main-
tain it, that a cuckold and a townsman are termini convertibiles, though
his mother's husband be an alderman. He was never begotten (as it
seems) without much wrangling; for his whole life is spent in pro and
contra. His tongue goes always before his wit, like gentleman-usher,
but somewhat faster. That he is a complete gallant in all points, cap
a pie, witness his horsemanship and the wearing of his weapons. He
is commonly longwinded, able to speak more with ease, than any man
can endure to hear with patience. University jests are his universal
34
SIR THOMAS OVERRURY
discourse, and his news the demeanour of the proctors. His phrase the
apparel of his mind, is made of divers shreds like a cushion, and when
it goes plainest, it hath a rash outside, and fustian linings. The current of
his speech is elosed with an ergo; ami whatever he the question, the truth
is on his side. Tis a wrong to his reputation, to he ignorant of any thing-
and yet he knows not: that he knows nothing. He gives directions for
husbandry from Virgil's Georgics\ for cattle from his Jlucolics; for war-
like stratagems from his Aeneid> or Ctvsur's Commentaries, lie orders
all things by the book, is skilful in all trades, and thrives in none. lie
is led more by his ears than his understanding, taking the sound of words
for their true sense: and does therefore confidently believe, that Krra
Pater was the father of heretics; Rodulphus Agricola a substantial fanner;
and will not stick to aver that Systema's l<ogic doth excel Keekerman's.
His ill luck is not so much in being a fool, as in being put to such pains
to express it to the world: for what in others is natural, in him (with
much-a-clo) is artificial. His poverty is his happiness, for it makes some
men believe, that he is none of fortune's favourites. That learning which
he hath, was in his nonage put in backward like a clyster, and 'tis now
like ware mislaid in a pedlar's pack; 'a has it, but knows not where it
is. In a word, he is the index of a man, and the title-page of a scholar;
or a puritan in morality: much in profession, nothing in practice.
OWEN FELLTHAM
(? 1602 -1668)
OWEN FKLLTHAM was the son of
Thomas Felltham of Mutford, in
Suffolk, and was bom about 1602.
Very few details of his life arc
known. It has been stated that he
was at Cambridge, for the not very
conclusive reason that he is not
mentioned by Wood, the Oxford
antiquary. At the extremely early
age of eighteen he published the
first version of Resolves t the book
by which he is remembered, if he
can be said to be remembered at all.
The first version consisted of a
hundred reflective and moralizing
short essays. He appears to have
held some domestic office, as either
chaplain or secretary, in the house-
hold of the Karl of Thomond at
Great Billing, Northamptonshire.
A second edition of Resolves ap-
peared in 1628, and contained <( A
Heconde Centime " of essays. The
book proved to be extremely popu-
lar, and ran into eight editions in
its author's lifetime. The fourth
edition reversed the order of the
two " centuries ", and in the eighth
edition the earlier century was
carefully revised and fifteen essays
were omitted. The book contains
much respectable but common-
place middle-class moralising; it
appealed strongly to those who,
like Felltham himself, enjoyed re-
flection without being adepts at it.
OWEN FELLTHAM
The essays, however, contain plenty
of excellent good sense, and their
style, though conceited, is not un-
attractive. Felltham's other works
consist of some well- wrought verses,
including a reply to Jonson's Come,
leave the loathed stage, which is at
once a good parody and an admir-
able criticism; a shrewd descrip-
tion of Holland entitled A Brie
^%_ ^_ "*
Character of the Low Countries
under the States; and some pleasant
enough Letters. Felltham was an
uncompromising Royalist, and went
so far as to refer to King Charles I
in one of his poems as " Christ the
Second ".
From cc Resolves 55
OF PRIDE AND CHOLER
The Proud man and the Choleric seldom arrive at any height of
virtue. Pride is the choler of the mind; and choler is the pride of the
body. They are sometimes born to good parts of Nature, but they rarely
are known to add by industry. 'Tis the mild and suffering disposition,
that oftenest doth attain to Eminency. Temper, and Humility are advan-
tageous Virtues, for business, and to rise by. Pride and Choler make
such a noise, that they awake dangers; which the other with a soft tread
steal by undiscovered. They swell a man so much, that he is too big
to pass the narrow way. Temper and Humility are like the Fox, when
he went into the Garner; he could creep in at a little hole, and arrive
at plenty. Pride and Choler are like the Fox offering to go out, when
his belly was full; which enlarging him bigger than the passage made
him stay, and be taken with shame. They, that would come to prefer-
ment by Pride, are like them that ascend a pair of Stairs on Horseback;
'tis ten to one, but both their Beasts will cast them, ere they come to
tread their Chamber. The minds of proud men have not that clear-
ness of discerning, which should make them judge aright of themselves,
and others. 'Tis an uncharitable vice, which teaches men how to neglect
and contemn. So depressing others, it seeketh to raise it self: and by
this depression angers them, that they bandy against it, till it meets
with the loss. One thing it hath more than any vice that I know: It
is an enemy to it self. The proud man cannot endure to see pride in
another. Diogenes trampled Plato: though indeed 'tis rare to find it
in men so qualified. The main thing that should mend these two, they
want; and that is, the Reprehension of a friend. Pride scorns a Corrector,
and thinks it a disparagement to learn: and Choler admits no counsel
that crosses him; crossing angers him, and anger blinds him. So if
ever they hear any fault, it must either be from an Enemy in disdain,
or from a Friend, that must resolve to lose them by 't. M. Drusus, the
Tribune of the People, cast the Consul, L. Philippus, into Prison, because
he did but interrupt him in speech. Other Dispositions may have the
VOL. ii. **
306
OWEN FELLTHAM
benefits of a friendly Monitor; but these by their vices do seem to give
a defiance to Counsel. Since, when men once know them, they will
rather be silent, and let them rest in their folly, than, by admonishing
them, run into a certain Brawl. There is another thing shows them to
be both base. They are both most awed by the most abject passion of
the mind, Fear. We dare neither be proud to one that can punish us;
nor choleric to one much above us, But when we have to deal with such,
we clad ourselves in their contraries: as knowing they are habits of
more safety, -and better liking. Every man flies from the burning house:
and one of these hath a fire in his heart, and the other discovers it in
his face. In my opinion, there be no vices that encroach so much on
Man as these: They take away his Reason, and turn him into a storm;
and then Virtue herself cannot board him, without danger of defamation,
I would not live like a Beast, pusht at by all the world for loftiness; nor
yet like a Wasp, stinging upon every touch. And this moreover shall
add to my mislilung them, that 1 hold, them things accursed, for sowing
of strife among Brethren.
THOMAS MIDDLETON
1570
THOMAS MIDDLETON was the son of
William Middleton, gentleman, and
was bom in London about 1570.
Very little is known about his life*
It is uncertain whether he was at
either University; it is probable
that he was entered at Gray's Inn
in 1593, He was City Chronologcr
from 1620 until his death, when he
was succeeded by Ben Jonson, who
in 1618 had mentioned him to
Drummond of Hawthornden as " a
base fellow ". Unlike Jonson,
Middleton discharged his duties
faithfully. This is almost all that is
known about him. He frequently
collaborated with other dramatists,
especially with Rowley and Dekker.
His earliest printed play was Blurt,
Master-Constable (1602), a light
comedy. Two interesting prose
tracts, Father Hubbard's Tale and
The Black Itook, appeared in 1604,
Amongst Middlcton's plays may
be mentioned the following: The
Ph<rnix\ Michaelmas Term (1607);
A Trick 1o catch the Old One (1607);
The 'Family of Love, a weak satire
on the Puritans (1608); Your Pirn
Gallant^ A, Mad World ^ my
Masters (1608); The Roaring Girl
(written with .Dekker, 1611); A
Chaste Maid m (2/teapside (1613);
The Witch} The Mayor of Quln-
borough; The, Changeling} The
Spanish Gipsy; and A Game at
Chcsse (1624), His excellent and
well-wrought masque. The World
tost at Tennis > appeared in 1620.
It is unlikely that Middieton wrote
a highly incompetent paraphrase of
The Wisdom of Solomon, which
appeared in 1597. Micro-cynicon,
Six Snarling Satires (1:599) may be
THOMAS MIDDLETON
307
his work. Middleton wrote with
much fluency, and his plays were
written under the uncomfortable
necessity of having to get them
finished by a fixed date. Yet much
of his work is memorable and some
supremely good. The Changeling
(written with Rowley) is perhaps
his masterpiece, and in one scene
(the conversation between De
Flores and Beatrice after the murder
of Alonzo) he surpasses Webster
and Tourneur, and is momentarily
on a level with Shakespeare. The
Witch is interesting on account of
its resemblances to Macbeth, which
was written earlier; some of the
songs from Middleton's play were
afterwards interpolated into Mac-
beth by the players. A Game at
Chesse is an altogether excellent
play, and is perhaps the most
Aristophanic comedy in English.
Under the thin disguise of pieces
and pawns, the characters of the
play were those English and Spanish
personages who were involved in
the matter of the Spanish marriage.
The Spanish ambassador, whose
predecessor Gondomar was satirized
as the Black Knight, got a stop put
to this play after a run of nine days.
The play was an instant success,
and in spite of its short run it
brought in 1500, an immense sum
for those days. Middleton was
fined and perhaps also imprisoned.
In this play, which is a criticism
not of city manners and customs,
but of diplomacy and international
politics, Middleton reached a height
to which he never before attained in
comedv. He died in his house at
'
Newington Butts, and was buried
on 4th July, 1627. Middleton had
a great poetic and dramatic genius
which was somewhat hampered by
the necessity of his earning his
bread. If the portrait which we
possess of his serious and earnest
face is a good one, he was one
of the most attractive-looking of
Elizabethan dramatists.
[A. C. Swinburne, The Age of
Shakespeare- Pauline G. Wiggin,
An Enquiry into the Authorship of
the Middleton-Rowley Plays] Sir
A. W. Ward, History of English
Dramatic Literature.]
From "The Changeling"
(Enter DE FLORES.)
DE FLORES
My thoughts are at a banquet; for the deed,
I feel no weight in s t; 'tis but light and cheap
For the sweet recompense that I set down for 't.
BEATRICE
De Flores!
[Aside.
DE FLORES
Lady?
THOMAS MJDDLKTON
Thy looks promise cheerfully.
I) i? FrxwHs
All things are answerable, time, circumstance,
Your wishes, and my service.
Is it done, then?
OK FLOKKS
Piracquo Is no more.
BHATIUCK
My joys start at mine eyes; our sweet 'si; delights
Are evermore horn weeping.
DK FLORAS
I've a token for you.
For me?
DK FLOURS
But it was sent somewhat unwillingly;
I could not get the ring without the linger.
I Producing the, ring
BHATKICK
Bless me, what hast then done?
DK FUMKS
Why, is that more
Than killing the whole man? 1 eut his heart-strings;
A greedy hand thrust in a dish at court,
In a mistake hath had as much as this.
BKATRIOK
Tis the first token my father made me send him*
DE FLORKR
And I have made him send it back again
For his last token; I was loath to leave it,
THOMAS MIDDLETON 309
And I'm sure dead men have no use of jewels;
He was as loath to part with % for it stuck
As if the flesh and it were both one substance.
BEATRICE
At the stag's fall, the keeper has his fees;
'Tis soon applied, all dead men's fees are yours, sir;
I pray, bury the finger, but the stone
You may make use on shortly; the true value,
Take 't of my truth, is near three hundred ducats.
DE FLORES
'Twill hardly buy a capcase for one's conscience though,
To keep it from the worm, as fine as 'tis:
Well, being my fees, I'll take it;
Great men have taught me that, or else my merit
Would scorn the way on 't.
BEATRICE
It might justly, sir;
Why, thou mistak'st, De Flores, 'tis not given
In state of recompense.
DE FLORES
No, I hope so, lady;
You should soon witness my contempt to 't then.
BEATRICE
Prithee thou look'st as if thou wert offended.
DE FLORES
That w r ere strange, lady; 'tis not possible
My service should draw such a cause from you:
Offended! could you think so? that were much
For one of my performance, and so warm
Yet in my service.
BEATRICE
Twere misery in me to give you cause, sir.
DE FLORES
I know so much, it were so; misery
In her most sharp condition.
THOMAS MIDDLETON
Tis resolved then;
Look you, sir, here's three thousand golden florins;
1 have not meanly though,!; upon thy merit.
I)K FLORAS
What! salary? now you move me,
BMTRICK
How, DC Florcs?
Dis FLO RES
Do you plaee me in the rank of verminous fellows,
To destroy things for wages? offer gold
For the life-blood of man? is any thing
Valued too precious for my recompense?
BEATRICE
I understand thee not.
DE FLOUISS
I could ha' hir'd
A journeyman in murder at this rate,
And mine own conscience might have slept at ease,
And have had the work brought home.
BEATRICE
I'm in a labyrinth;
What will content him? I'd fain be rid of him. [Aside.
I'll double the sum, sir,
DE FLORES
You take a course
To double my vexation, that's the good you clo.
BEATRICE
Bless me, I'm now in worse plight than I was;
I know not what will please him. (Aside) For my fear's sake,
I prithee, make away with all speed possible;
And if thou be'st so modest not to name
The sum that will content thee, paper blushes not,
THOMAS MIDDLETON 3 1
Send thy demand in writing, it shall follow thee;
But, prithee, take thy flight.
DE FLORES
You must fly too then.
BEATRICE
1?
DE FLORES
I'll not stir a foot else.
BEATRICE
What's your meaning?
DE FLORES
Why, are not you as guilty? in, I'm sure,
As deep as I; and we should stick together:
Come, your fears counsel you but ill; my absence
Would draw suspect upon you instantly,
There were no rescue for you.
BEATRICE
He speaks home! [Aside.
DE FLORES
Nor is it fit we two, engag'd so jointly,
Should part and live asunder.
BEATRICE
How now, sir?
This shows not well.
DE FLORES
What makes your lip so strange?
This must not be betwixt us.
BEATRICE
The man talks wildly!
DE FLORES
Come, kiss me with a zeal now.
THOMAS MIDDL'KTON
BEATRICE
Heaven, I doubt him! [Aside.
DK FLO RES
I will not stand so long lo beg 'cm shortly.
BEATRICE
Take heed, De Flores, of forget fulness,
'Twill soon betray us,
DK FLO RES
Take you heed first;
Faith, you're grown much forgetful, you're to blame in 't.
BEATRICE
He's bold, and 1 am blam'd for 't, [Aside,
DK FLORES
I have cas'd you
Of your trouble, think on It; I am in pain,
And must be cas'd of you; 'tis ;i charity,
Justice Invites your blood to understand me.
BEATRICE
I dare not.
DE FLORES
Quickly!
BEATRICE
0, I never shall!
Speak It yet further off, that I may lose
What has been spoken, and no sound remain on J t;
I would not hear so much offence again
For such another deed.
DE FLORES
Soft, lady, soft!
The last is not yet paid for: 0, this act
Has put me into spirit; I was as greedy on 't
As the parch'd earth of moisture, when the clouds weep;
Did you not mark, I wrought myself into 't,
THOMAS MIDDLETON 313
Nay, sued and kneel'd for J t? why was all that pains took?
You see I've thrown contempt upon your gold;
Not that I want it not, for I do piteously,
In order I'll come unto 't, and make use on 't,
But 'twas not held so precious to begin with,
For I place wealth after the heels of pleasure;
And w T ere I not resolv'd in mv belief
.>
That thy virginity were perfect in thee,
I should but take my recompense with grudging,
As if I had but half my hopes I agreed for.
BEATRICE
Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be so wicked,
Or shelter such a cunning cruelty,
O . '
To make his death the murderer of my honour!
Thy language is so bold and vicious,
I cannot see which way I can forgive it
With any modesty.
DE FLORES
Push! you forget yourself;
A woman dipp'd in blood, and talk of modesty!
BEATRICE
misery of sin! would I'd been bound
Perpetually unto my living hate
In that Piracquo, than to hear these words 1
Think but upon the distance that creation
Set 'twixt thy blood and mine, and keep thee there.
DE FLORES
Look but into your conscience, read me there,
'Tis a true book, you'll find me there your equal:
Push! fly not to your birth, but settle you
In what the act has made you, you're no more now;
You must forget your parentage to me;
You are the deed's creature; by that name
You lost your first condition, and I challenge you,
As peace and innocency have turn'd you out,
And made you one with me.
BEATRICE
With thee, foul villain?
THOMAS MIDDLETON
DE FLORAS
Yes, my fair murderess; do you urge me?
Though thou \vrit\st maid, thou whore in thy affection!
Twas cluing'd from thy first love, and that's a kind
Of whoredom in the heart; and he's cliaugM now
To bring thy second on, thy Alsemero,
Whom, by all sweets that ever darkness tasted,
If I enjoy thce not, thou ne'er enjoycstl
I'll blast the hopes and joys of marriage,
I'll confess all; my life I rate at nothing,
BEATRICE
De Florcs!
DE FLORES
I shall rest from all love's plagues then;
I live in pain now; that shooting eye
Will burn my heart to cinders,
BEATRICCK
sir, hear me!
DE FLORID
She that ia life and love refuses me,
In death and shame my partner she shall be.
BEATRICE (kiedhig)
Stay, hear me once for all; I make thce master
Of all the wealth I have in gold and jewels;
Let me go poor unto my bed with honour,
And I am rich in all things!
DE FLO RES
Let this silence thec;
The wealth of all Valencia shall not buy
My pleasure from me;
Can you weep Fate from its determined purpose? ,
So soon may you weep me,
BEATRICE
Vengeance begins;
Murder, I see, is follow'cl by more sins;
THOMAS MIDDLETON
3*5
Was my creation in the womb so curst,
It must engender with a viper first?
DE FLORES (raisitig her)
Come, rise and shroud your blushes in my bosom;
Silence is one of pleasure's best receipts:
Thy peace is wrought for ever in this yielding.
'Las, how the turtle pants! thou'lt love anon
What thou so fear'st and faint *st to venture on. [Exeunt.
(Act III, Sc. 4.)
PHILIP MASSINGER
(1583-1640)
PHILIP MASSINGER was born at
Salisbury in 1583. His father,
Arthur Massinger, was a member
of Parliament, and was attached
to the household of the second Earl
of Pembroke. He was educated at
St. Alban's Hall, Oxford, which he
entered in 1602, and left, without
taking a degree, in 1606. The third
Earl of Pembroke (often identified
with Mr. W. H. of Shakespeare's
Sonnets) was not a patron of Mas-
singer's, and this has been ex-
plained by supposing that the
dramatist became a Roman Catholic.
The evidence is not conclusive,
but there are indications in three
plays which support this theory.
The Renegado is a dramatized
treatise on Christian evidences,
The Virgin Martyr is a chronicle of
Christian martyrdom, and The Maid
of Honour ends with Camiola taking
the veil. Almost all that we know
about Massinger's life apart from
his plays is that he was often short
of money. In his early days he
almost invariably collaborated , some-
times with Dekker, oftener with
Fletcher. Of the so-called Beau-
mont and Fletcher plays, at least
eighteen are believed to contain the
work of Massinger. When Mas-
singer died, in 1640, he was buried
in the same grave as Fletcher.
There are nineteen plays extant
which are Massinger's in their
entirety. Eight other plays were
extant in manuscript until the
middle of the eighteenth century,
when they (with forty-seven other
old plays) were used for pie-covers
by -Betsy Baker, the cook of
John Warburton, F.R.S., Somerset
Herald, who had got possession of
them. Among Massinger's plays
may be mentioned: The Duke of
Milan, a fine tragedy; The Great
Duke of Florence (1627), a master-
piece of dramatic construction;
The Picture; The City Madam
(1632); and his best-known play,
A New Way to pay Old Debts
(1633). The last-named play has
long been a favourite, and has kept
the stage for a long time. This is
mainly on account of its leading
character, Sir Giles Overreach,
who was drawn from the infamous
extortioner Sir Giles Mompesson,
3 i6
PHILIP MASSINC5ER
banished and degraded from knight-
hood in 1620. This character
gives a star-actor a great oppor-
tunity. Massinger's excellent play
The Fatal Dowry was shamelessly
plagiarized by Nicholas Rowe, Pool;
Laureate and Shakespearean editor,
in his Fair Penitent (1703).
Massingcr is perhaps the least
poetical of all the early dramatists,
Not only can he not write lyrics;
his blank verse is pedestrian and
undistinguished. If, however, he
stands low as a poet, as a dramatist
he stands among the first. lie is a
masterly constructor of plots, far
surpassing Fletcher, Jonson, or
Webster in this respect, lie was a
man of a far more serious cast of
mind than, most of his fellow-play-
wrighls. Some of his plays are as
interesting as a novel, others as
solid as a, treatise on political philo-
sophy. The drama was declining
\vhen he was writing, but he did not
hasten, though he failed to delay its
decline, 1 Ic must; be placed at the
head of the Caroline dramatists.
^ [A. II. CYuiekshauk, Philip Mas-
shiger; Sir .Leslie Stephen, Hows
hi a Library^ A. C. Swinburne,
Philip Massinger (Fortnightly Re-
view, July, :t<S8()); 1VL Chelli, Le
dnww. de, Ma$$ingc)\\
From "A New Way to pay Old Debts"
(OVERREACH (a cruel extortioner) Inwls about truuryiiig
his daughter with Lord Lovuu,,)
OVERUKACII
To my wish we are private.
I come not to make offer with my daughter
A certain portion; that were poor and trivial;
In one word I pronounce all that is mine,
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods,
With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have
One motive to induce you to believe
I live too long, since every year I'll add
Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too.
LOVELL
You are a right kind father,
OVERREACH
You shall have reason
To think me such. How do you like this seat?
It is well-wooded and well-water 'd, the acres
Fertile and rich: would it not serve for change,
To entertain your friends in a summer's progress?
What thinks my noble lord?
PHILIP MAS SINGER
LOVELL
'Tis a wholesome air,
And well-built, and she, that is mistress of it,
Worthy the large revenue.
OVERREACH
She the mistress?
It may be so for a time: but let my lord
Say only that he but like it, and would have it;
I say, ere long 'tis his.
LOVELL
Impossible.
OVERREACH
You do conclude too fast; not knowing me,
Nor the engines that I work by. Tis not alone
The lady Alhvorth's lands: but point out any man's
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient
And useful for your lordship; and once more
I say aloud, they are yours.
LOVELL
I dare not own
What's by unjust and cruel means extorted:
My fame and credit are more dear to me,
Than so to expose them to be censured by
The public voice.
OVERREACH
You run, my lord, no hazard:
Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now;
Nor can my actions, though condemn 'd for ill,
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours.
For though I do contemn report myself,
As a mere sound; I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you in all points of honour,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestioned integrity,
Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot
That may take from your innocence and candour.
All my ambition is to have my daughter
Right honourable; which my lord can make her:
PHILIP MASRINGER
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young lord Lovell, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the port
Your noble birth and present state require,
I clo remove that burden from your shoulders,
And take it on mine own: for though I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste,
The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you.
Arc you not frighted with the imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices?
OVEURKACIl
Yes, as rocks are
When foaming billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness,
I am of a, solid temper, and, like these,
Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword,
If calPd into the field, I can make that right,
Which fearful enemies munnur'd at as wrong,
Now, for those other peddling complaints,
Breathed out in bitterness; as, when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears arc pierced with widows* cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold;
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm,
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.
LOVELL
I admire
The toughness of your nature.
OVERREACH
'Tis for you,
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble.
PHILIP MASSINGER 319
From "The Picture"
(MATTHIAS, a knight of Bohemia, going to the wars; in
parting with his wife, shows her substantial reasons
why he should go.)
MATTHIAS
Since we must part, Sophia, to pass further
Is not alone impertinent, but dangerous.
We are not distant from the Turkish camp
Above five leagues; and who knows but some party
Of his Timariots, that scour the country,
May fall upon us? Be now, as thy name
Truly interpreted hath ever spoke thee,
Wise and discreet; and to thy understanding
Marry thy constant patience.
SOPHIA
You put me, sir,
To the utmost trial of it.
MATTHIAS
Nay, no melting:
Since the necessity, that now separates us,
We have long since disputed; and the reasons,
Forcing me to it, too oft wash'd in tears.
I grant that you in birth were far above me,
And great men my superiors rivals for you;
But mutual consent of heart, as hands
Join'd by true love, hath made us one and equal:
Nor is it in me mere desire of fame,
Or to be cried up by the public voice
For a brave soldier, that puts on my armour;
Such airy tumours take not me: you know
How narrow our demeans are; and what's more,
Having as yet no charge of children on us,
We hardly can subsist.
SOPHIA
In you alone, sir,
I have all abundance.
MATTHIAS
For my mind's content,
In your own language I could answer you.
PHILIP MASSINGKR
You have been an obedient wife, u right; one;
And to my power, though short: of your desert,
{ have been ever an indulgent husband.
We have long enjoy M the sweets of love, and though
Not to satiety or loathing, yet
We must not live such dotards on our pleasures,
As still to hug them to the certain, loss
Of profit and preferment* Competent: means
Maintains a quiet: bed, want breeds dissension,
Kv'n in good women.
SOPHIA
Have you found in me, sir,
Any distaste or sign of discontent,
For want of what's superfluous?
MATTHIAS
No, Sophia;
Nor shalt thou ever have cause to repent:
Thy constant course in goodness, if Heaven bless
My honest undertakings, "f is for thee,
That 1 turn soldier, and put forth, dearest,
Upon this sea of action as a factor,
To trade for rich materials to adorn
Thy noble parts, and show them in full lustre.
I blush that other ladies, less in beauty
And outward form, but, in the harmony
Of the soul's ravishing music, the same ago
Not to be named with thee, should so outshine thee
In jewels and variety of wardrobes;
While you, to whose sweet innocence both Indies
Compared are of no value, wanting these,
Pass unregarded.
SOPHIA
If I ara so rich,
Or in your opinion so, why should you borrow
Addition for me?
MATTHIAS
Why? I should be censured
Of ignorance, possessing such a jewel,
Above all price, if I forbear to give it
The best of ornaments. Therefore, Sophia,
In few words know my pleasure, and obey me;
PHILIP MASSINGER 32*
As you have ever done. To your discretion
I leave the government of my family,
And our poor fortunes, and from these command
Obedience to you as to myself:
To the utmost of what's mine, live plentifully:
And, ere the remnant of our store be spent,
With my good sword I hope I shall reap for you
A harvest in such full abundance, as
Shall make a merry winter.
SOPHIA
Since you are not
To be diverted, sir, from what you purpose,
All arguments to stay you here are useless.
Go when you please, sir. Eyes, I charge you, w j aste not
One drop of sorrow; look you hoard all up,
Till in my widow'd bed I call upon you:
But then be sure you fail not. You blest angels,
Guardians of human life, I at this instant
Forbear to invoke you at our parting; 'twere
To personate devotion. My soul
Shall go along with you; and when you are
Circled with death and horror, seek and find you;
And then I will not leave a saint unsued to
For your protection. To tell you what
I will do in your absence, would show poorly;
My actions shall speak me. 'Twere to doubt you,
To beg I may hear from you where you are;
You cannot live obscure: nor shall one post
By night or day, pass unexamined by me.
If I dwell long upon your lips, consider
After this feast the griping fast that follows;
And it will be excusable; pray, turn from me;
All that I can is spoken.
From "The Virgin Martyr"
(ANGELO, an Angel, attends DOROTHEA as a page.
The time, midnight.)
DOROTHEA
My book and taper.
ANGELO
Here, most holy mistress.
VOL. II. 45
PHILIP MASSINGER
DOROTHEA
Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never
Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.
Were every servant In the world like theo,
So full of goodness, angels would come down
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,
And like that name them art. Get thec to rest;
Thy youth with too much watching is oppress
ANGl'XO
No, my clear lady. I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,
By my late watching, but to wail; on you.
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Metlunks I'm singing with some quire in heaven,
So blest I hold me in your company.
Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not hid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence;
For then you break his heart.
DOROTHEA
Be nigh me still, then.
In golden letters down I'll set that day,
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself,
This little, pretty body, when I coming
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy,
My' sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand;
And when I took thce home, my most chaste bosom
Methought was filFd with no hot wanton lire,
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,
On wiags of cherubims, than it did before,
ANGELO
Proud am I that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.
DOROTHEA
I have offer'd
Handfuls of gold, but to behold thy parents.
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some.
PHILIP MASSINGER
To dwell with thy good father; for, the son
Bewitching me so deeply with his presence,
He that begot him must do 't ten times more.
I pray thee, rny sweet boy, show me thy parents;
Be not ashamed.
ANGELO
I am not: I did never
Know 7 who my mother was; but, by yon palace,
Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure you,
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,
My father is in heaven; and, pretty mistress,
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand
No \vorse, than yet it doth, upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid you welcome.
323
DOROTHEA
A bless J d day!
CYRIL TOURNEUR
(? 1575 -1626)
CYRIL TOURNEUR was born about
1575. He was probably the son and
almost certainly a near relative of
Captain Richard Turner, who was
lieutenant-governor of Brill. Al-
most nothing is known of his life,
except that in 1613 he carried
" letters for his Majestie's service
to Brussels ", and that he accom-
panied Sir Edward Cecil to Cadiz
in 1625. On his return from the
expedition he took ill; he was put
ashore at Kinsale, wiiere he died,
leaving his widow destitute. Tour-
neur's poems consist of The Trans-
formed Metamorphosis (printed 1600,
rediscovered 1872), a satire w r hose
key is lost and which is written in
an unintelligible jargon; and two
elegies, A Funeral Poem on Sir
Francis Vere (1609) and A Grief e
on the Death of Prince Henrie
(1613), neither of which rises above
the level of official lamentations.
Tourneur's fame rests entirely on
his two tragedies, The Revenger's
Tragedy (published 1607) and The
Atheist's Tragedy (published 1611).
It is almost certain that the play
which was published the later was
written the earlier of the two. A
third tragedy, The Nobleman (1612),
was destroyed by Warburton's cook.
The Atheist's Tragedy is immature,
The Revenger's Tragedy a much
stronger and more finished play.
As dramas both plays leave much
to be desired. They have little
dramatic power, and their charac-
ters are caricatures. It is the force
CYRIL TOURNKUR
and flow of Tourncur's poetry that
distinguishes his work. " Cluios
and old Night " brood over his
plays; and the (a rand Guignol
element in them is prominent. In
gloom and in tragic cynicism he re-
sembles Webster; it has been said
that Tourneur is to Webster as
Webster is to Shakespeare. Swin-
burne in his characteristie eulogy
has undoubtedly overvalued Tour-
neur, but on the strength of his
masterpiece he must, be placed
among the great Jaeobcaus.
|Jf. Churtou (Collins, The Plays
and Poems of (Jyril Tourneur; A. C.
Swinburne, Tim Age. of KJiakc-
speare.}
From "The Revenger's Tragedy"
(ViNDiCE addresses the Skull of his dead Lady.}
Thou sallow picture of my poison'd love,
My study's ornament, thou shell of death,
Once the bright face of my betrothed lady,
When life and beauty naturally HUM out
These ragged imperfections;
When two heaven-pointed diamonds were set
In those unsightly rings then 'twas a face
So far beyond the artificial shine
Of any woman's bought complexion,
That the uprightest man (if such there be
That sin but seven times a day) broke custom,
And made up eight with looking after her.
0, she was able to have made a usurer's son
Melt all his patrimony in a kiss;
And what his father fifty years told,
To have consumed, and yet his suit been cold.
*
Here's an eye
Able to tempt a great man to serve God;
A pretty hanging lip, that has forgot now to dissemble.
Methinks this mouth should make a swearer tremble;
* A drunkard clasp his teeth, and not undo 'em,
To suffer wet damnation to run through 'em,
Here's a check keeps her colour let the wind go whistle:
Spout rain, we fear thee not: be hot or cold,
AlPs one with us: and is not he absurd,
Whose fortunes are upon their faces set,
That fear no other God but wind and wet?
Does the silk-worm expend her yellow labours
For thee? for thee does she undo herself?
Are lordships sold to maintain ladyships,
CYRIL TOURNEUR
325
For the poor benefit of a bewitching minute?
Why does yon fellow falsify highways,
And put his life between the judge's lips,
To refine such a thing? keep his horse and men,
To beat their valours for her?
Surely we're all mad people, and they
Whom we think are, are not.
Does every proud and self-affecting dame
Camphire her face for this? and grieve her Maker
In sinful baths of milk, when many an infant starves,
For her superfluous outside, for all this?
Who now bids twenty pound a night? prepares
Music, perfumes, and sweetmeats? all are hush'd.
Thou mayst lie chaste nowl it were fine, methinks,
To have thee seen at revels, forgetful feasts,
And unclean brothels: sure 'twould fright the sinner,
And make him a good coward: put a reveller
Out of his antick amble,
And cloy an epicure with empty dishes.
Here might a scornful and ambitious woman
Look through and through herself. See, ladies, with false forms
You deceive men, but cannot deceive worms.
ROBERT BURTON
(1577-1640)
ROBERT BURTON was born at Lind-
ley, in Leicestershire, in 1577. He
was educated at the Grammar
School at Nuneaton and at Sutton
Coldfield, Warwickshire. In 1593
he went to Brasenose College, Ox-
ford, and in 1599 was elected a
student of Christ Church, where
he spent the remainder of his life.
At some unknown date he took
holy orders, and became a Bachelor
of Divinity in 1614. In 1616 he
was presented to the vicarage of
St. Thomas's, Oxford, and about
1630 he received in addition the
rectory of Segrave, in Leicester-
shire. His uneventful life ter-
minated at Christ Church in 1640;
it was said, without any foundation,
that he hanged himself in order to
make his own astrological prog-
nostication of his death come
true. His epitaph is well known
" Faucis notus, paucioribus ignotus,
hie iacet Democritus Junior, cm
vitam dedit et mortem Melancholia ".
Burton in 1606 wrote and in
1615 revised a Latin comedy, Philo-
sophaster, which was acted at Christ
Church in 1618. It was long
thought to be lost, but a MS. was
discovered and printed for the
Roxburghe Club in 1862. The
comedy is excellent of its kind, but,
326
ROBERT BURTON
not unnaturally, is little known.
Burton is essentially homo wiius
lihri, but what a book! The Anatomy
of Melancholy, what // ;V, with all
the kinds, causes, symptom, prog-
nostics, and several cures of //, ///.
three Partitions, with their several
sections, members, and subsections,
Philosophically , Medicinally , 1 lis~
torically opened and cut ///>, by
Democritns Junior first appeared
in quarto in 1621, and four other
editions, in folio, appeared in the
author's lifetime, each containing
some improvements and additions,
A sixth edition, printed 'from a
copy annotated by Burton, came
out in 1651, The hook thus at
once achieved considerable popu-
larity, and it did so because it con-
formed to the taste of the time, not
on account of its eccentricities.
Indeed its eccentricities have been
greatly exaggerated; the book is
not an elaborate joke, conceived
and written in the spirit of Rabe-
lais, but a great medical treatise,
serious in purpose, written by one
who held that the victims of
melancholy had need of the divine
as well as of the physician. Burton's
age produced not a few works
similarly written, but they are for-
gotten because the learning they
contain is specialized, not universal
like that of Burton, lie indeed
took all knowledge for his pro-
vince; melancholy is his nominal
subject; his actual, theme is no less
than the whole life of man; Iwmi-
nem paglna -noslra AYJ/>//. Burton
was, beyond everything, a helluo
//bronnn] he must; have worked
his way through, the whole of the
recently-rounded Bodleian, so that
his book, like Ins melancholy, is
" compounded of many simples,
extracted from many objects ".
The vast number of quotations
which he introduces, always aptly,
culling some of them from the
most out-of-the-way stores of
learning, has always had a great
charm for scholars. Dr. Johnson
declared that the Anatomy of Mel-
"B 1 *
aneholy was the only book that
ever drew him out of heel an hour
sooner than he would otherwise
have got up. Sterne plagiarized
freely from Burton, and many later
and lesser writers have used him
as a quarry. Lamb was an ardent
Ji *'
devotee of the " fantastic old great
man ". Burton does not: appeal to
everyone; some critics of weight,
Ilallam and Macau lay among them,
cannot stomach him; but; those
who relish him do so with, their
whole heart. The commercial
spirit shown by publishers is not
always of benefit to mankind; but
it was when it: prevented Burton
from composing his great work in
Latin,
[A. R. Slulleto, The Analogy of
Melancholy-, C, Whibley, Literary
Portraits-* V. Miulaii, Robert Burton
ami the Anatomy of Melancholy]
O. C. F, Mead 'and R. 0. Cliff,
Bur ion the Anatomist,}
From " The Anatomy of Melancholy "
Part II, Section //, Member IV
To that great inconvenience, which comes on the one side by im-
moderate and unseasonable exercise, too much solitariness and idle-
ness on the other, must be opposed, as an Antidote, a moderate and
ROBERT BURTON 327
seasonable use of it, and that both of body and mind, as a most material
circumstance, much conducing to this cure, and to the general pre-
servation of our health. The Heavens themselves run continually round,
the Sun riseth and sets, the Moon increaseth and decreaseth, Stars and
Planets keep their constant motions, the air is still tossed by the winds,
the waters ebb and flow, to their conservation no doubt, to teach us
that we should ever be in action. For which cause Hierom prescribes
Rusticus the Monk, that he be always occupied about some business
or other, that the Devil do not find him idle. Seneca would have a man
do something, though it be to no purpose. Xenophon wisheth one
rather 'to play at tables, dice, or make a jester of himself (though he
might be far better employed) than do nothing. The Egyptians of old,
and many flourishing Commonwealths since, have enjoined labour
and exercise to all sorts of men, to be of some vocation and calling, and
to give an account of their time, to prevent those grievous mischiefs
that come by idleness; for as fodder, whip, and burden, belong to the
ass, so meat, correction and work unto the servant, Ecclits. 33. 24. The
Turks enjoin all men whatsoever, of \vhat degree, to be of some trade
or other, the grand Seignior himself is not excused. In our memory
(saith Sabellicus) Mahomet the Turk, he that conquered Greece, at
that very time when he heard Embassadors of other Princes did either
carve or cut wooden spoons, or frame something upon a table. This
present Sultan makes notches for bows. The Jews are most severe in
this examination of time. All well-governed Places, Towns, Families,
and every discreet person will be a law unto himself. But amongst us
the Badge of Gentry is idleness, to be of no calling, not to labour, for
that's derogatory to their birth, to be a mere spectator, a drone, fruges
consumere natus, to have no necessary employment to busy himself about
in Church and Commonwealth (some few Governors exempted) but
to rise to eat, etc. to spend his days in hawking, hunting, etc, and such-
like disports and recreations (which our casuists tax) are the sole exercise
almost and ordinary actions of our Nobility, and in which they are too
immoderate. And thence it comes to pass that in City and Country
so many grievances of body and mind, and this feral disease of Melan-
choly so frequently rageth, and now domineers almost all over Europe
amongst our great ones. They know not how to spend their time (dis-
ports excepted, which are all their business), what to do, or otherwise
how to bestow themselves: like our modern Frenchmen, that had rather
lose a pound of blood in a single combat than a drop of sweat in any
honest labour. Every man almost hath something or other to employ
himself about, some vocation, some trade, but they do all by ministers
and servants; ad otia duntaxat se natos exisiimant, immo ad mi ipsius
pkrumque et aliorum pernidem as one freely taxeth such kind of men;
they are all for pastimes, 'tis all their study; all their invention tends
33 g ROBKRT BURTON
to this alone to drive away time, as if they were horn sonic of them to
no other ends. Therefore to correct 1 and avoid those errors and incon-
veniences, our Divines, Physicians, and Politicians, so much labour, and
so seriously exhort; and for this disease in particular there can he no
better cure than continual business, as Rluusis holds, to have some employ-
ment or other, which may set their mind awork, and distract: their cogi-
tations. Riches may not easily be had without labour and industry, nor
learning without study, neither can our health be preserved without
bodily exorcise. If it be of the body, Guiauerius allows that: exercise
which is gentle, and still after those ordinary lYiealions, which must
be used every morning. Montaltus, />. :i() t and, Jason IVateusis use
almost the same words, highly commending exercise, if it; be moderate;
a wonderful help so used, Crato calls it, and a groat means to preserve
our health, as adding strength to the whole body, increasing natural heat,
by means of which the nutriment: is well concocted in the stomaek,
liver, and veins, few or no crudities left, is happily distributed over
all the body. Besides, it expels excrements by sweat, and other insensible
vapours, in so mueh that Galen prefers Exercise before all Physick, Rec-
tification of Diet, or any Regiment; in what kind soever; 'tis Nature's
Physician. Fulgentius, out; of Gordonius, <!a rwwr/. ?'//, how. Lib. I.
cap. 7, terms exercise a spur of a dull sleepy nature, the comforter of
the members, cure of infirmity, death of diseases, destruction of all
mischiefs and viees, The fittest time for exercise is a little before dinner,
a little before supper, or ut any time when the body is empty* Montamus,
consiL 31, prescribes it every morning to his -patient 1 , and that, as Calenus
adds, after he hath done his ordinary needs, rubbed bin body, washed
his hands and face, combed Ids head, and gargarixcd. What kind of
exercise he should use Galen tells us, lib, a & 3. tlr /////. ttwwl. and
in what measure, till the body be ready to sweat, and, roused up; ad
ntborcM) some say, non ad sudorcm^ lest it should dry the body too mueh;
others enjoin those wholesome businesses, as to dig so long in his garden,
to hold the plough, and the like. Some prescribe frequent; and violent
labour and exercises, as sawing every day, so long together, (r/>/V. 6,
Hippocrates confounds them), but that is in some cases, to sonic peculiar
men; the most forbid, and by no means will have it go farther than a
beginning sweat, as being perilous if it exceed.
Of these labours, exercises, and recreations, -which are likewise included,
some properly belong to the body, some to the mind, some more easy,
some hard, some with delight, some without, some within doors, some
natural, some arc artificial. Amongst bodily exercises Galen commends
ludumparvacpilac, to play at hall, be it with the hand or racket, in Tennis-
courts or otherwise, it cxerciseth each part of the body, and cloth much
good, so that they sweat not too much. It was in #reat request of old
amongst the Greeks, Romans, Barbarians, mentioned by Homer, Hero-
ROBERT BURTON 3
dotus, and Pliny. Some write, that Aganella, a fair maid of Corcyra,
was the inventor of it, for she presented the first ball that ever was made
to Nausicaa, the daughter of king Alcinous, and taught her how to use it.
The ordinary sports which are used abroad are Hawking, Hunting,
htlares venandi labores, one calls them because they recreate body and
mind; another the best exercise that is, by which alone many have been
freed from all feral diseases. Hegesippus, lib. I. cap. 37, relates of Herod,
that he was eased of a grievous melancholy by that means. Plato,
7. de. leg. (p. 823) highly magnifies it, dividing it into three parts, by Land,
Water, Air. Xenophon, in Cyropaed. graces it with a great name, Deorum
mimus, the gift of the Gods, a Princely sport, which they have ever used,
saith Langius, epist. 59. lib. 2, as well for health as pleasure, and do at
this day, it being the sole almost and ordinary sport of our Noblemen of
Europe, and elsewhere all over the world. Bohemus, de mor. gent. lib. 3.
cap. 12, styles it therefore stadium nobilium\ communiter venantur, qtiod
sibi solis licere contendunt\ 'tis all their study, their exercise, ordinary
business, all their talk; and indeed some dote too much after it, they can
do nothing else, discourse of naught else. Paulus Jovius, descr. Brit.
doth in some sort tax our English Nobility for it, for living in the country
so much, and too frequent use of it, as if they had no other means but
Hawking and Hunting to approve themselves Gentlemen with.
Hawking comes near to Hunting, the one in the Air, as the other
on the Earth, a sport as much affected as the other, by some preferred.
It was never heard of amongst the Romans, invented some 1200 years
since, and first mentioned by Firmicus, lib. 5, cap. 8. The Greek Ern-
perors began it, and now nothing so frequent: he is no body that in the
season hath not a Hawk on his fist. A great Art, and many books written
of it. It is a wonder to hear what is related of the Turks 5 Officers in this
behalf, how many thousand men are employed about it, how many Hawks
of all sorts, how much revenues consumed on that only disport, how much
time is spent at Adrianople alone every year to that purpose. The Persian
Kings hawk after Butterflies with sparrows, made to that use, and stares;
lesser Hawks for lesser games they have, and bigger for the rest, that
they may produce their sport to all seasons. The Muscovian Emperors
reclaim Eagles to fly at Hinds, Foxes, etc. and such a one was sent for
a present to Queen Elizabeth: some reclaim Ravens, Castrils, Pies, etc.
and man them for their pleasures.
Fowling is more troublesome, but all out as delightsome to some
sorts of men, be it with guns, lime, nets, glades, gins, strings, baits,
pitfalls, pipes, calls, stalking-horses, setting-dogs, coy-ducks, etc or
otherwise. Some much delight to take Larks with day-nets, small birds
with chaff-nets, plovers, partridges, herons, snite, etc._ Henry the Ibird,
Kino; of Castile (as Mariana the Jesuit reports of him , lib. 3. cap. %)
was much affected with catching of Quails, and many Gentlemen take
33 o ROBERT BURTON
a singular pleasure at morning and evening to go abroatl with their Quail-
pipes, and will take any pains to satisfy their delight in that kind. The
Italians have gardens lilted to such use, "with nets, hushes, glades, sparing
no cost or industry, and are very much nlVeeved with the sport. Tyeho
Brake, that great Astronomer, in the Cliorography of his Isle of Hucna,
& Castle of Uranihurge, puts down his nets, and manner of catching
small birds, as an ornament, and' a recreation, wherein he himself was
sometimes employed.
Fishing is a kind of hunting by water, he it; with, nets, weels, baits,
angling or otherwise, and yields all out; as much, pleasure to some men
as dogs or hawks; whe,n 1hcy draw llic.ir fish upon the lwn/\\ sailh Nie.
Ilenselius, Sites io<rntf)hiue, cap. 3, speaking of that extraordinary delight
his Countrymen took in fishing, and in making of pools, James Dubravius,
that Moravian, in his book de pise, telleth how, travelling by the high-
way side in Silesia, he found a Nobleman booted up to the groins, wading
himself, pulling the nets, and labouring as much as any fisherman of
them all: and when some belike objected to him the baseness of his
office, he excused himself, that if oilier men ;///#/// hunt Hares, why should
not he hunt Carps? Many Gentlemen in like sort; with, us will wade tip
to the Ann-holes upon such occasions, and voluntarily undertake that,
to satisfy their pleasure, which a poor man for a good stipend would
scarce be hired to undergo. Plutarch, in his book /)e softer. anhnaL speaks
against all fishing, as a filthy, base, illiberal employment, having neither
wit nor perspicacity in it, nor worth, the labour. Hut he that: shall con-
sider the variety of Baits, for all seasons, & pretty devices which our
Anglers have invented, peculiar lines, false Hies, several, sleights, etc.
will say that it deserves like commendation, requires as much study
and perspicacity as the rest, and is to be preferred before many of them.
Because hawking and hunting are very laborious, much, riding and many
dangers accompany them; but this Is still and quid: and if so be the
angler catch no Fish, yet he hath a wholesome walk to the Brook side,
pleasant shade by the sweet silver streams; he hath, good air, and sweet
smells of line fresh meadow flowers, he hears the melodious harmony of
Birds, he sees the Swans, Herons, Ducks, Water-hens, Cools, etc. and
many other Fowl, with their brood, which he thinketh better than the
noise of Hounds, or blast of Horns, and all the sport thai; they can make,
Many other sports and recreations there be, much in use, as ringing,
bowling, shooting, which Ascham commends in a just volume, and
hath in former times been enjoined by statute as a defensive exercise,
and an honour to our Land, as well may witness our victories in France.
Keelpins, trunks, quoits, pitching bars, hurling, wrestling, leaping, running,
fencing, mustering, swimming, wasters, foils, foot-ball, baioon, quintain,
etc. and many such, which are the common recreations of the country
folk; riding of great horses, running at rings, tills and tournaments,
ROBERT BURTON 331
horse-races, wild-goose chases, which are the disports of greater men,
and good in themselves, though many Gentlemen, by that means, gallop
quite out of their fortunes.
But the most pleasant of all outward pastimes is that of Aretaeus,
deambulatio per amoena loca, to make a petty progress, a merry journey
now and then with some good companions, to visit friends, see Cities,
Castles, Towns,
Visere saepe amnes nitidos, peramoenaque Tempe,
Et placidas summis sectari in montibus auras:
To see the pleasant fields, the crystal fountains,
And take the gentle air amongst the mountains:
to walk amongst Orchards, Gardens, Bowers, Mounts, and Arbours,
artificial wildernesses, green thickets, Arches, Groves, Law T ns, Rivulets,
Fountains, and such like pleasant places, like that Antiochian Daphne,
Brooks, Pools, Fishponds, betwixt wood and water, in a fair meadow,
by a river side, ubi variae avium cantationes, florum colores, pratorum
fmtices, etc. to disport in some pleasant plain, park, run up a steep
hill sometimes, or sit in a shady seat, must needs be a delectable recreation.
Hortus prindpis et domus ad delectationem facia, cum syfoa, monte et
piscina, vulgo La Montagna: the Prince's garden at Ferrara Schottus
highly magnifies, with the groves, mountains, ponds, for a delectable
prospect, he was much affected with it; a Persian Paradise, or pleasant
park, could not be more delectable in his sight. S. Bernard, in the de-
scription of his Monastery, is almost ravished with the pleasures of it.
A sick man (saith he) sits upon a green bank, and when the Dog-star parcheth
the plains, and dries up rivers, he lies in a shady bower, Fronde sub arborea
ferventia temperat astra, and feeds his eyes with variety of objects, herbs,
trees; to comfort his misery, he receives many delightsome smells, and fills
his ears zdih that sweet and various harmony of Birds. Good God! (saith
he) what a company of pleasures hast thou made for man! He that should
be admitted on a sudden to the sight of such a Palace as that of Escurial
in Spain, or to that which the Moors built at Granada, Fontainebleau
in France, the Turk's gardens in his Seraglio, wherein all manner of
birds and beasts are kept for pleasure, Wolves, Bears, Lynxes, Tigers,
Lions, Elephants, etc. or upon the banks of that Thracian Bosphorus:
the Pope's Belvedere in Rome, as pleasing as those Horti pensiles in Babylon,
or that Indian King's delightsome garden in Aelian; or those famous
gardens of the Lord Cantelow in France, could not choose, though he
were never so ill apaid, but be much recreated for the time; or many
of our Noblemen's gardens at home. To take a boat in a pleasant evening,
and with musick to row upon the waters, which Plutarch so much applauds,
Aelian admires upon the river Peneus, in those Thessalian fields beset
with green bays, where birds so sweetly sing that passengers, enchanted
33 :
ROBERT BURTON
as it were with their heavenly nmsick, omnium htbornm cl cuninnn oblivi-
scautur, forget forthwith all labours, care, ami grief: or in a Gondola
through the Grand Canal in Venice, to sec those goodly .Palaces, must
needs refresh and give content to a melancholy dull spirit.
LORD HERBERT OF CIIERBURY
(1583-1648)
EDWARD UKRBHRT, afterwards Lord
Herbert of Cherbury, was the son
of Richard Herbert of Montgomery
Castle and a brother of George
Herbert (q.v.) He was born at:
Ey ton-on- Severn in 1583, and was
educated at University College,
Oxford. While still at Oxford 'he
married his cousin Mary, an heir-
ess, and soon became a courtier
and a well-known figure in London.
King James made him a Knight of
the Bath soon after his accession in
1603. He travelled much abroad,
and became famous or notorious
as a horseman and a duellist, lie
took part in the siege of Juliers,
and, in 1614, joined the army of
the Prince of Orange and dis-
tinguished himself by acts of
bravery and foolhardincss. Ills
innumerable adventures probably
do not lose anything in the telling
in his Autobiography. In 1619
Herbert was appointed ambassador
at Paris, though he was too impetu-
ous a man to be an ideal diplo-
matist. He discharged his duties
conscientiously, but was sent home
in 1624 for not carrying out the
king's wishes in regard to the
negotiations for the marriage of
Prince Charles and Princess Henri-
etta Maria. Before he left Paris he
published his philosophical treatise
De Veritate. He returned home
under a cloud, and in debt, and
was fobbed oil; with an Irish peer-
age (Lord Castleisland). Ju 1629
lie was given an English peerage
(Lord Herbert of Cherhury), but
he never received the high office
or oil ices to which ho believed his
merits entitled him* His Life o/
Henry VIII was begun in 1,632,
but not published until 1649. It
is the result; of considerable but
not judicious research; it is well
documented, but biased in its
treatment of Henry's character,
During the Civil War, Herbert
was at; first: a Royalist, but after-
wards endeavoured to be a neutral,
and lost the esteem of both parties,
Eventually he admitted a Parlia-
mentary force into Montgomery
Castle and submitted to Parlia-
ment, receiving a pension of -20
a week. He retired to his house in
Queen Street, London, and occu-
pied himself with the composition
of his Autobiography and other
literary works. In 1,646 he was
appointed steward of the duchy of
Cornwall and warden of the Stan-
naries, lie died on 20th August,
1648. Donne, Ben Jouson, Curew,
and Seklen were among his inti-
mate friends.
Herbert of Cherbury is famous
for three things. He was the first
Englishman to write a metaphysical
LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY
JJO
treatise; he was a forerunner of the
Deists; and he wrote one of the
most entertaining autobiographies
in the language. His De Veritate,
prout distinguitur a Revelatione,
verisimili) possibili, et a falso is a
solid and able metaphysical work
in Latin; De Causis Erronim (1645)
and De Religione Gentilmm (pub-
lished 1663) may be considered as
completions of the religious and
philosophical system expounded in
his earlier work. He laid down the
five fundamental propositions of
cleism: that there is one supreme
God; that He ought to be wor-
shipped; that virtue and piety are
the main elements of worship; that
repentance is a duty; and that
there are rewards and punishments
both in this life and after it. His
delightful Autobiography, upon
which his popularity if not his
entire fame rests, was written
about 1645, but not published until
1764, when Horace Walpole printed
it privately at Strawberry Hill. It
is a naive and egotistic work whose
charm largely resides in its naivete
and egotism. Herbert says little
about his high office, his distin-
guished friends, and his philosophi-
cal speculations; much about his
exploits as duellist and amorist.
He was a curiously mixed character,
even for Elizabethan days: a blend
of Hamlet and Tybalt; a grave
philosopher who wrote in Latin,
and a swaggering swordsman who
wrote in English; a diplomatist
whose motto might have been non
verba sed Berber a. His poems are
similar to those of Donne and
the metaphysical school; accord-
ing to Jonson, he and Donne
once had a competition in obscure-
ness. Some of his lighter poems,
however, have charm and are melo-
dious.
[C. de Remusat, Lord Herbert
de Cherlury\ Sir Sidney Lee ? The
Autobiography of Lord Herbert of
Cherbury, J. Churton Collins, Lord
Herbert of Cherbury's Poems; G.
C. Moore-Smith, The Poems of
Lord Herbert of Cherbury.]
From the "Autobiography"
Shortly after I was made Knight of the Bath, with the usual cere-
monies belonging to that ancient order. I could tell how much my person
was commended by the lords and ladies that came to see the solemnity
then used, but I shall flatter myself too much if I believed it.
I must not forget yet the ancient custom, being that some principal
person was to put on the right spur of those the king had appointed
to receive that dignity. The Earl of Shrewsbury seeing my esquire
there with my spur in his hand, voluntarily came to me and said, " Cousin,
I believe you will be a good knight, and therefore I will put on your spur;"
whereupon after my most humble thanks for so great a favour, I held
up my leg against the wall, and he put on my spur.
There is another custom likewise, that the knights the first day wear
the gown of some religious order, and the night following to be bathed;
after which they take an oath never to sit in place where injustice should
be done, but they shall right it to the uttermost of their power; and
334 LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY
particularly ladies and gentlewomen that shall be wronged in their honour
if they demand assistance, and many other points, not unlike the romances
of knight errantry.
The second day to wear robes of crimson talTety (in which habit
I am painted in my study), and so to ride From St. James's to White-
hall, with our esquires before us; and the third day to wear a gown of
purple satin, upon the left sleeve whereof is fastened certain strings
weaved of white silk and gold tied in a knot, and tassels to il; of the same
which all the knights are obliged to wear until they have done some-
thing famous in arms, or until some lady of honour take it off, and fasten
it on her sleeve, saying, I will answer lie shall prove a good knight, I
had not long worn this string, but a principal lady of the court, and
certainly, in most men's opinion, the handsomest, took mine off, and
said she would pledge her honour for mine. I do not name this lady,
because some passages happened afterwards, which oblige me to silence,
though nothing could be justly said to her prejudice or wrong.
*. ..
There happened during this siege a particular quarrel betwixt me
and the Lord of Walden, eldest son, to the Karl of Suffolk, Lord 'Treasurer
of England at that time, which 1 do but unwillingly relate, in, regard
of the great esteem I have of that noble family; howbeit, to avoid mis-
reports, I have thought fit to set: it; down truly. That lord having been
invited to a feast in Sir Horace Vere's quarters, where (after the Low
Country manner) there was liberal drinking, returned not long after
to Sir Edward Cecil's quarters, at which time, [ speaking merrily to him,
upon some slight occasion, he took that offence at me, which he would
not have done at another time, insomuch that he came towards me in
a violent manner, which I perceiving, did more than half way meet: him;
but the company were so vigilant upon us that before any blow past
we were separated; howbeit, because he made towards me, I thought
fit the next clay to send him a challenge, telling him, that if he had any
thing to say to me, I would meet him in such a place as no man should
interrupt us. Shortly after this, Sir Thomas Peyton came to me on his
part, and told me my lord would light me on horseback with single
sword; ^ and, said he, " 1 will be his second; where is yours?" 1 replied
that neither his lordship nor myself brought over any great horses with
us; that I knew he might much better borrow one than myself; howbeit,
as soon as he showed me the place, he should find me there on horse-
back or on foot; whereupon both of us riding together upon two geldings
to the side of a wood, Peyton said he chose that place, and the time break
of day the next morning, I told him, " I would foil neither place nor
time, though I knew not where to get a better horse than the nag I rid
on; and as for a second, I shall trust to your nobleness, who, I know,
will see fair play betwixt us, though you come on his side." But he urging
LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY 335
me again to provide a second, I told him I could promise for none but
myself, and that if I spoke to any of my friends In the army to this pur-
pose, I doubted lest the business might be discovered and prevented.
He was no sooner gone from me, but night drew on, myself resolving
in the mean time to rest under a fair oak all night; after this, tying my
horse by the bridle unto another tree, I had not now rested two hours,
when I found some fires nearer to me than I thought was possible in
so solitary a place, whereupon also having the curiosity to see the reason
hereof, I got on horseback again, and had not rode very far, when by the
talk of the soldiers there, I found I was in the Scotch quarter, where
finding in a stable a very fair horse of service, I desired to know T whether
he might be bought for any reasonable sum of money, but a soldier
replying it was their captain's Sir James Areskin's chief horse, I demanded
for Sir James, but the soldier answering he was not within the quarter,
I demanded then for his lieutenant, whereupon the soldier courteously
desired him to come to me. This lieutenant was called Montgomery,
and had the reputation of a gallant man; I told him that I would very
fain buy a horse, and if it were possible, the horse I saw but a little before;
but he telling me none was to be sold there, I offered to leave in his hands
one hundred pieces, if he would lend me a good horse for a day or two,
he to restore me the money again when I delivered him the horse in good
plight, and did besides bring him some present as a gratuity.
The lieutenant, though he did not know me, suspected I had some
private quarrel, and that I desired this horse to fight on, and there-
upon told me, " Sir, whosoever you are, you seem to be a person of
worth, and you shall have the best horse in the stable; and if you have
a quarrel and want a second, I offer myself to serve you upon another
horse, and if you will let me go along with you upon these terms, I will
ask no pawn of you for the horse." I told him I would use no second,
and I desired him to accept one hundred pieces, which I had there about
me, in pawn for the horse, and he should hear from me shortly again;
and that though I did not take his noble offer of coming along with me,
I should evermore rest much obliged to him; whereupon giving him my
purse with the money in it, I got upon his horse, and left my nag besides
with him.
Riding thus a\vay about twelve o'clock at night to the wood from
whence I came, I alighted from rny horse and rested there till morning;
the day now breaking I got on horseback, and attended the Lord of
Waldcn and his second. The first person that appeared was a footman,
who I heard afterwards was sent by the Lady of Walden, who as soon
as he saw me, ran back again with all speed; I meant once to pursue
him, but that I thought it better at last to keep my place. About two
hours after Sir William St. Leger, now Lord President of Munster,
came to me, and told me he knew the cause of my being there, and that
33 6 LORD HERBERT OF ClIKRBURY
the business was discovered by the Lord Will den's rising so early that
morning, and the suspicion that he meant to light with me, and had
Sir Thomas Peyton with him, and that lie would ride to him, and that
there were thirty or forty sent after us, to hinder us from meeting; shortly
after many more came to the place where [ was, and told me I must not
fight, and that they were sent for the same purpose, and that it was to
no purpose to stay there, and thence rode to seek the Lord of Waldcn;
I stayed yet two hours longer, but finding still more company came in,
rode back again to the Scotch quarters, and delivered the horse back
again, and received my money and nag from Lieutenant Montgomery,
and so withdrew myself to the French quarters, till 1 did find some con-
venient time to send again to the Lord Walden.
."
There was a lady also, wife to Sir John Ayres, knight', who iinding
some means to get a copy of my picture from Larkin, gave it to Mr,
Isaac Oliver, the painter in Blackfriars, and desired him to draw it in
little after his manner; which being done, she caused it to be set in gold
and enamelled, and so wore it about; her neck, so low that she hid it
under her breasts, which, I conceive, coming afterwards to the knowledge
of Sir John Ayres, gave him more cause of jealousy than needed, had
he known how innocent I was from pretending to any thing which might
wrong him or his lady; since 1 could not so much as imagine that; either
she had my picture, or that she bare more than .ordinary affection to
me. It is true that she had a place in court, and attended Queen Anne,
and was beside of an excellent wit and discourse, she had made herself
a considerable person; howbeit little more than common civility ever
passed betwixt us, though I confess 1 think no man was welcomer to her
when I came, for which I shall allege this passage:
Coming one clay into her chamber, I saw her through the curtains
lying upon her bed with a wax candle in one hand, and the picture I
formerly mentioned in the other. I coming thereupon somewhat boldly
to her, she blew out the candle, and hid the picture from me; myself
thereupon being curious to know what that was she held in her hand, got
the candle to be lighted again, by means whereof I found it: was my picture
she looked upon with more earnestness and passion than I. could have
easily believed, especially since myself was not engaged in any alFection
towards her, I could willingly have omitted this passage, but that it
was the beginning of a bloody history which followed: howsoever, yet
I must before the Eternal Gocl clear her honour.
JOHN EARLE
337
JOHN EARLE
( ? 1601 - 1665 )
JOHN EARLE was born at York in
or about 1601. He was educated
at Oxford, matriculating at Christ
Church, but subsequently migrat-
ing to Mcrton. He graduated B.A.
in 1619 and M.A. in 1624; in
1631 he was appointed Proctor,
and he received the degree of D.D.
in 1640. In 1631 he became
chaplain to Philip, Earl of Pem-
broke, then Chancellor of Oxford,
and in 1639 he was made rector of
Bishopston, Wiltshire. In 1641
the king appointed Earle tutor to
Prince Charles, lie accompanied
Charles II abroad after the battle
of Worcester, and was his chaplain
and clerk of the closet. After the
Restoration he met with his clue
reward, and was appointed in turn
Dean of Westminster, Bishop of
Worcester, and Bishop of Salisbury,
During the Great Plague he accom-
panied the king and court to Ox-
ford, and died there on lyth
November, 1665. He was a inan
whose moderation and geniality
endeared him to everyone; the
king loved and admired him; his
co-religionists esteemed him, and
the Nonconformists found him the
most sympathetic member of the
bench of bishops.
In 1628 Microcosmographie, or a
Pecce of the World discovered in
Essayes and Characters appeared
anonymously, but was soon known
to be Earle's work. It was deser-
vedly popular, and passed through
seven editions in its author's life-
time. The first edition contained
fifty - four characters, the sixth
seventy- eight. Some of these are
almost certainly not by Earle. The
book is full of wit, humour, and
admirable character-painting. It
is milder and more humane than
the similar collections of Hall and
Overbury. It is a capital book, not
only on account of the quiet fun it
contains, but also on account of the
light which it throws upon the
manners and customs of the open-
ing years of King Charles I's reign.
There are editions of Microcos-
mographie by P. Bliss (1811), J.
T. Eowler (1871), and A.-S. West
(1897).
From " Microcosmographie "
AN ANTIQUARY
Hoc is ii man strangely thrifty of Time past, arid an enemy indeed
to his Maw, whence he fetches out many things when they are now
all rotten and stinking. Hec is one that hath that unnaturall disease
to bee cnamour'd of old age, and wrinckles, and loves all things (as
Dutchmen doe Cheese) the better for being mouldy and worme-eaten. He
is of our Religion, because wee say it is most ancient; and yet a broken
Statue would almost make him an Idolater. A great admirer he is of the
if.
33 8 JOHN EARLE
rust of old Monuments, and rcaclcs oncly those Characters, where time
hath eaten out the letters. I Ice will goe you forty miles to sec a Saints'
Well, or ruin'd Abbey: and if there be but a Crosse or stone foot-stoole
in the way, hcc'l be considering it so long, till he forget his journey.
His estate consists much in shekels, and Roman Coynes, and hec hath
more Pictures of Caesar, then James or Elizabeth. Boggcrs coox.cn him
with musty things which they have rak't from dunghills, and he preserves
their rags for precious Rcliques. He loves no Library, but where there
are more Spiders volums then Authors, and lookes with great admiration
on the Antique workc of cob-webs. Printed hookcs he contemncs, as
a novelty of this latter age; but a Manuscript he pores on everlastingly,
especially if the cover be all Moth-eaten, and the dust make a Parenthesis
betweene every Syllable. lie would give all the Bookcs in his Study
(which are rarities all) for one of the old Romano binding, or sixe lines
of Tully ia his ownc hand. His chamber is hung commonly with strange
Beasts skins, and is a kind of Charnel-house of bones extraordinary and
his discourse upon them, if you will heare him, shall last longer. His
very atyre is that which is the eldest out of fashion , and you may picke a
Criticism out of his Breeches. lie never lookcs upon himself till he is
gray hair'd, and then he is pleased with his ownc Antiquity. His
Grave do's not fright him, for he ha's been us'd to Rcpulchcra, and lice
likes Death the better, because it gathers him to his Fathers.
A PLAYER
He knowes the right use of the World, wherein hec comes to play
a part and so away, His life is not idle for it Is all Action, and no man
need be more wary in his doings, for the eyes of all men are xipon him.
His profession ha's in it a kind of contradiction, for none is more dis-
lik'd, and yet none more applauded and hec ha's this misfortune of
some Scholler, too much witte makes him a foolc. He is like our painting
Gentle-women, seldorne in his ownc face, seklomer in his cloathcs,
and hee pleases, the better hec counterfeits, except onely when hec
is disguis'cl with straw for gold lace, Hoc do's not only personate on
the Stage, but sometime in the Street, for hec Is maskd still ia the habitc
of a Gentleman. His Parts find him oathes and good words, which he
keepes for his use and Discourse, and makes shew with them of a fashion-
able Companion. He is tragicall on the Stage, but rampant in the Tyring-
house, and sweares oathes there which he never conM. The waiting
women Spectators are over-cares in love with him, and Ladies send for
him to act in their Chambers. Your Innes of Court men were undone
but for him, hee is their chiefe guest and imployment, and the sole busi-
nesse that makes them After-noones men; The Poet only is his Tyrant,
?ind hee is bound to make his friends friend drunk at his charges. Shrove-
JOHN EARLE 339
tuesday hee feares as much as the Baudes, and Lent is more damage
to him then the Butcher. Hee was never so much discredited as in one
Act, and that was of Parliament, which gives Hostlers Priviledge before
him, for which hee abhors it more then a corrupt Judge. But to give
him his due, one wel-furnisht Actor has enough in him for five common
Gentlemen, and if he have a good body for sixe, and for resolution, hee
shall Challenge any Cato, for it has beene his practise to die bravely.
A PLAIN COUNTRY FELLOW
Is one that manures his ground well, but lets himself e lie fallow
and until'd. Hee has reason enough to doe his businesse, and not enough
to bee idle or melancholy. Hee seemes to have the judgement of Nabu-
chadnexan for his conversation is among beasts, and his tallons none
of the shortest, only he eates not grasse, because hee loves not sallets.
His hand guides the Plough, and the Plough his thoughts, and his ditch
and land-marke is the very mound of his meditations. He expostulates
with his Oxen very understandingly, and speaks Gee and Ree better
then English. His mind is not much distracted with objects: but if
a goode fat Cowe come in his way, he stands dumbe and astonisht, and
though his haste bee never so great, will fixe here halfe an houres con-
templation. His habitation is some poore Thatcht roofe, distinguisht
from his Barn, by the loope-holes that let out smoak, which the raine
had long since washt thorow, but for the double seeling of Bacon on
the inside, which has hung there from his Grandsires time, and is yet
to make rashers for posterity. His Dinner is his other worke, for he sweats
at it as much as at his labour; he is a terrible fastner on a piece of Beefe,
and you may hope to stave the Guard off sooner. His Religion is a part
of his Copy-hold, which hee takes from his Land-lord, and referres
it wholly to his discretion. Yet if hee give him leave, he is a good Christian
to his power (that is) comes to Church in his best clothes, and sits there
with his Neighbours, where he is capable onely of two Prayers, for raines
and faire weather. Hee apprehends Gods blessings onely in a Good
Yeere, or a Fat pasture, and never praises him but on good ground.
Sunday he esteemes a day to make merry in, and thinkes a Bag-pipe
as essentiall to it, as Evening-Prayer, where hee walkes very solemnly
after service with his hands coupled behind him, and censures the dauncing
of his parish. His complement with his Neighbour, is a good thumpe
on the backe; and his salutation, commonly some blunt Curse. Hee
thinks nothing to bee vices but Pride and ill husbandrie, for which hee
wil gravely disswade youth and has some thriftie Hobnayle Proverbes to
Clout his discourse. He is a niggard all the Weeke except onely Market-
day, where if his Corne sell well, hee thinkes hee may be drunke with
a good Conscience. His feete never stincke so unbecomingly, as when
34
JOHN KARhK
hec trots after a Lawyer iu Westminster-hall, and even, cleaves the ground
with hard scraping, in beseeching his Worship to take Ins money, lice
is sensible of no calarnilie but; the burning of a Stacke of Corne, or the
over-flowing of a Ivledow, and thinkes Nwths Mood the greatest Plaque
that cucr was, not because It Drowned, the World, but spoyl'd the grasse,
For Death hec is never troubled, and if liee got in, but bis 1 Jarvest before
let It conic when it wil lie cures not.
'OHN SELDKN
(1584-1654)
JOHN REUWN was bora at Salving-
ton, Sussex, iu 1584, His father
was a well-to-do yeoman, with
considerable musical gifts. He
was educated at Chiehester Free
School and at Hart I hill, Oxford,
where he did not graduate. In
1603 he was entered at Clifford
Ian, and was admitted to the
Inner Temple in 1604, lie was
not called to the Bur until, 1612.
In 1633 l ie became a Bencher.
Selden, although, a legal luminary
of the first magnitude, never prac-
tised in the courts to any extent.
lie was content to be, as Ben
Jonson said, " the law book, of the
judges of England". lie was
considered to be the final, court: of
appeal in certain legal matters,
especially in those matters which
chiefly concern a legal antiquary.
Much of Selden's career belongs
to political rather than to literary
history; but a brief outline of his
life may be given. His early works,
all replete with learning, include
Analccton Anglo-lint anntcon (1607),
Jani Angknim Fades alfera (1610),
and England's Epinomis (1610). In
1612 he wrote learned notes upon
the first eighteen " songs " of
Polyotoion, and in 1614 he pub-
lished Titlcs^ of Jlnnour, ti most
important reference book, improved
in later editions, The third edition
(1672) has never been superseded
as an authority on all matters con-
nected with titles. A; /)//> flym t
an important; I, alia treatise on
Oriental mythology, appeared in
,1617. In the same year his ,/lisfory
of Tyl/ics made its appearance, and
got him into some trouble with the
king and the ecclesiastical autho-
rities. He made a lukewarm re-
tractation and a few modifications
in the book. In 1623 he entered
Parliament, and in, 1636 lie took a
prominent part in the impeach-
ment; of Buckingham, lie was
counsel for Sir Kdmund llampden
in 1627, and in 1629 be supported
the petition of the printers and
booksellers against Laud, and took
an active part; in the discussions
about tonnage and poundage, lie
was accordingly imprisoned, and
was not liberated until May, 1631,
lie opposed the Crown in, the
matter of ship-money; helped to
draw up the articles of impeach-
ment of Laud; became clerk and
keeper of the records of the 'Tower
of London in 1643; after 1649 he
took no further part in public
JOHN SELDEN
341
affairs, and devoted himself to
study. For many years he was
steward to Henry Grey, seventh
Earl of Kent, and he was said to
have secretly married the countess
after the earl's death, which took
place in 1639. The countess died
in 1651 and left most of her
property to Selden. He died at
the Carmelite or White Friars
House which she had bequeathed
him.
Selden's Latin works do not
find many readers; even his
English works, though often con-
sulted, are seldom read. His style
is curiously cumbrous and heavy;
it conveys information without
entertainment. He is remembered
almost entirely on account of his
extraordinarily pithy and pregnant
Table-Talk, which was taken down
by his secretary, Dr. Richard
Milward, and published in 1689,
thirty-five years after Selden 's
death and nine years after Mil-
ward's. Coleridge said of it:
" There is more weighty bullion
sense in this book than I ever
found in the same number of
pages of any uninspired writer."
As his earliest editor said, Selden
" would presently convey the
highest Points of Religion and the
most important Affairs of State, to
an ordinary apprehension ". He
was an Erastian, and a strong
advocate of common sense and
reason. His conversation had some-
thing of the pungency of Dr.
Johnson's; and it is small wonder
that it is remembered and treasured
when his legal and antiquarian
works are forgotten.
[G. W. Johnson, Memoirs of
John Selden\ there are editions of
the Table-Talk by S. W. Singer
(1847) and S. H. Reynolds (1892).]
From "Table-Talk"
BAPTISM
Twas a good way to persuade Men to be christened, to tell them
that they had a Foulness about them, viz. Original Sin, that could not
be washed away but by Baptism.
2. The Baptizing of Children with us, does only prepare a Child,
against he comes to be a Man, to understand what Christianity means.
In the Church of Rome it has this Effect, it frees Children from Hell.
They say they go into Limbus Infantum. It succeeds Circumcision,
and we are sure the Child understood nothing of that at eight Days old;
why then may not we as reasonably baptize a Child at that Age? In
England, of late years, I ever thought the Parson baptized his own Fingers
rather than the Child.
3. In the Primitive Times they had Godfathers to see the Children
brought up in the Christian Religion, because many times, when the
Father was a Christian, the Mother was not, and sometimes, when the
Mother was a Christian, the Father was not; and therefore they made
choice of two or more that were Christians, to see their Children brought
up in that Faith.
342 JOHN SKLDEN
BIBLE. SCRIPTURE
Tis a great Question how we know Scripture to be Scripture, whether
by the Church, or by Man's private Spirit. Let me ask you how I know
any thing? how 1 know this Carpet to be ^recu? First, because some-
body told me it was green; that you call the Church in your Way. And
then after I have been told it is green, when I see that Colour again,
I know it to he green, my own eyes tell me it is green; that you call the
private Spirit.
2. The English Translation of the Bible is the best Translation
in the World, and renders the Sense of the Original best, taking in for
the English Translation the Bishops' Bible as well as King James's,
The Translators in King James's time took an excellent way. That
Part of the Bible was given to him who was most excellent in such a
Tongue (as the Apocrypha, to Andrew Downs) and then they met together,
and one read the Translation, the rest holding in their Hands some
Bible, either of the learned Tongues, or French, Spanish, Italian, etc,
If they found any Fault, they spoke; if not, he read on.
3. There is no Book so translated as the Bible, For the purpose,
if I translate a French Book into English, I turn it into English Phrase,
not into French English. (// fait froid) 1 say, 'tis cold, not:, it makes
cold; but the Bible is rather translated into English Words than into
English Phrase. The Hebraisms are kept, and the Phrase of that Lan-
guage is kept: which is well enough, so long as Scholars have to do with
it; but when it comes among the Common People, Lord, what Gear
do they make of it!
4. Scrutammi Scrip turas. These two Words have undone the World,
Because Christ spake it to his Disciples, therefore xvc must all, Men.
*i If * f r
Women and Children, read and interpret the Scripture.
5. Henry the Eighth made a Law, that all Men might; read, the Scrip-
ture, except Servants; but no Woman, except Ladies and Gentlewomen,
who had Leisure, and might ask somebody the Meaning. The Law was
repealed in Edward the Sixth's Days,
6. Lay-men have best interpreted the hard places in the Bible, such
as Johannes Pieus, Scaligcr, Grotius, Salmasius, ILciuaius, etc,
7. If you ask which of Erasmus, Bexa, or Grotius did best upon
^ New Testament? 'tis an idle Question; For they all did well in
their Way. Erasmus broke down the first Brick, Ucan added many things,
and Grotius added much to him; in whom we have cither something
new, or something heightened that was said before, and so 'twas neces-
sary to have them all three,
8. The Text serves only to guess by; we must satisfy ourselves fully
out of the Authors that lived about those times,
9. In interpreting the Scripture, many do as if a Man, should sec one
JOHN SELDEN 343
have ten Pounds, which he reckoned by i, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10: meaning
four was but four Units, and five five Units, etc. and that he had in
all but ten Pounds: the other that sees him, takes not the Figures together
as he doth, but picks here and there, and thereupon reports, that he
hath five Pounds in one Bag, and six Pounds in another Bag, and nine
Pounds in another Bag, etc. when as in truth he hath but ten Pounds
in all. So we pick out a Text here and there to make it serve our turn;
whereas if we took it altogether, and considered what went before and
what followed after, we should find it meant no such thing.
10. Make no more Allegories in Scripture than needs must. The
Fathers were too frequent in them; they, indeed, before they fully under-
stood the literal Sense, looked out for an Allegory. The Folly whereof
you may conceive thus: Here at the first sight appears to me in my Window
a Glass and a Book; I take it for granted 'tis a Glass and a Book; there-
upon I go about to tell you what they signify: afterwards upon nearer
view, they prove no such thing; one is a Box like a Book, the other is
a Picture made like a Glass: where 's now my Allegory?
11. When Men meddle with the literal Text, the Question is, where
they should stop. In this Case, a Man must venture his Discretion,
and do his best to satisfy himself and others in these Places where he
doubts; for although we call the Scripture the Word of God (as it is), yet
it was writ by a Man, a mercenary Man, whose Copy, either might be
false, or he might make it false. For Example, here were a thousand
Bibles printed in England with the Text thus, (Thou shall commit
Adultery) the Word (not) left out: might not this Text be mended?
12. The Scripture may have more Senses besides the Literal, because
God understands all things at once; but a Man's Writing has but one
true Sense, which is that which the Author meant when he writ it.
13. When you meet with several Readings of the Text, take heed
you admit nothing against the Tenets of your Church; but do as if you
were going over a Bridge; be sure you hold fast by the Rail, and then
you may dance here and there as you please; be sure you keep to what
is settled, and then you may flourish upon your various Lections.
14. The Apocrypha is bound with the Bibles of all Churches that
have been hitherto. Why should we leave it out? The Church of Rome
has her Apocrypha (viz.) Susanna, and Bel and the Dragon, which she
does not esteem equally with the rest of those Books that we call
Apocrypha.
DEVILS
,,*
A Person of Quality came to my Chamber in the Temple, and told
me he had two Devils in his Head (I wondered what he meant), and
just at that time, one of them bid him kill me: (with that I begun to be
344 JOHN SELDEN
afraid, and thought he was mud). He said lie knew I could cure him,
and therefore entreated me 1<> give him something; for he was resolved
he would go to no body else, 1 perceiving what an Opinion he had of
me, and that 'twas only Melancholy that troubled him, took him in
hand, warranted him, if he would follow my directions to cure him
in a short time. I desired him to let me he alone about an .hour, and then
to come again, which he was very willing to. .In. the meantime I got a
Card, and lapped it up handsome in a, Piece of Talfala, and. when he
came, gave it him to bang about his Neck; withal charged him, that
he should not disorder himself neither with eating or drinking, but eat
very little of Supper, and say his Prayers duly when be wont to Bed,
and I made no question but; he would be well in three or four Days.
Within that time I went to Dinner to his House, and asked him how
he did. lie said he was much better, but; not perfectly well, for in truth
he had not dealt clearly with me. lie had four Devils in his head, and
he perceived two of them were gone, with that which I hud given him,
but the other two troubled him stilL Well, said I, 1 am glad two of
them are gone; 1 make no doubt but to get away the other two like-
wise, So 1 gave him another thing to hang about; bis Neck, Three Days
after he came to me to my Chamber and profest; be was now as well
as ever he was in his Life, and did extremely thank me for the great
Care I had taken of him. 1 fearing lest he might relapse into the like
Distemper, told him that: there was none but; myself and one Physician
more, in the whole Town, that could cure Devils in the Head, and that
was Dr* Harvey (whom I had prepared), and, wished him, if ever he
found himself ill in my Absence, to go to him, for he could cure his
Disease as well as myself. The Gentleman lived many Years and was
never troubled after.
FRIENDS
Old Friends are best. King James used to call, for his old Shoes; they
were easiest for his Feet.
KING OF ENGLAND
The King can do no wrong; that is, no Process can be granted against
him. What must be done then? Petition him, and the King writes upon
the Petition soit drott fail, and sends it to the Chancery, and then the
business is heard. His Confessor will not tell him, he can do no wrong.
2. There's a great deal of difference between Head of the Church,
and Supreme Governor, as our Canons call the King. Conceive it thus:
there is in the Kingdom of England a College of Physicians; the King
is Supreme Governor of those, but not Head of them, nor President
of the College, nor the best Physician.
JOHN SELDEN 345
3. After the Dissolution of the Abbeys, they did much advance
the King's Supremacy, for they only cared to exclude the Pope: hence
have we had several Translations of the Bible put upon us. But now
we must look to it, otherwise the King may put upon us what Religion he
pleases.
4. 'Twas the old way when the King of England had his House,
there were Canons to sing Service in his Chapel; so at Westminster
in St. Stephen's Chapel where the House of Commons sits: from which
Canons the Street called Canon-row has its Name, because they lived
there; and he had also the Abbot and his Monks, and all these the King's
House.
5. The three Estates are the Lords Temporal, the Bishops and the
Clergy, and the Commons, as some would have it, (take heed of that,)
for then if two agree, the third is involved; but he is King of the three
Estates.
6. The King hath a Seal in every Court, and though the Great Seal
be called Sigillum Angliae, the Great Seal of England, yet 'tis not because
'tis the Kingdom's Seal, and not the King's, but to distinguish it from
Sigillum Hiberniae, Sigillum Scotiae.
7. The Court of England is much altered. At a solemn Dancing,
first you had the grave Measures, then the Corantoes and the Galliards,
and all this is kept up with Ceremony; at length to Trenchmore, and the
Cushion-Dance, and then all the Company dance, Lord and Groom,
Lady and Kitchen-Maid, no distinction. So in our Court, in Queen
Elizabeth's time, Gravity and State were kept up. In King James's
time things were pretty well. But in King Charles's time, there has been
nothing but Trenchmore, and the Cushion-Dance, omnium gatherum,
tolly-polly, hoite cum toite.
TRINITY
The second Person is made of a piece of Bread by the Papist, the
Third Person is made of his own Frenzy, Malice, Ignorance and Folly,
by the Roundhead. To all these the Spirit is intituled. One the Baker
makes, the other the Cobbler; and betwixt these two, I think the First
Person is sufficiently abused.
WILLIAM PRYNNE
WILLIAM PRYNNE
( 1600- 1669 )
WILLIAM PRYNNK was bora in
1600 at Swanswick, in Somerset-
shire, lie was educated at Bath
Grammar School and at Oriel
College, Oxford, where he gradu-
ated B.A. in 1621. lie was
admitted to Lincoln's Inn in 1621,
and was called to the Bar in 1628.
All his life he was a Puritan of the
most determined and uncompro-
mising kind, but he was not a good
party-man, and usually his liand
was against every man and every
man's hand against him. The
absurdity and narrow-mindedness
of some of his views arc partly
atoned for by the earnestness and
fearlessness with which he expressed
them. In 1627 he published a tract
attacking Arminianism, and two
pamphlets denouncing long hair
and the drinking of healths. His
most famous work, Histrio-Mastix,
a scathing but unreadable denun-
ciation of stage-plays, appeared in
1632. A passage in its index, to
which most of the readers of the
book probably confined themselves,
spoke of women-actors as " noto-
rious whores ". This was inter-
preted as referring to the queen,
who had been taking part in a
pastoral play, and Prynne was
imprisoned. In 1634 he was con-
demned by the Star-Chamber to
pay a fine of 5000, to stand in the
pillory and have both ears cut
off, and to remain a prisoner for
life. Even while in prison he con-
tinued to write pamphlets inces-
santly; one of them, News from
Ipswich, an attack on the Bishop
of Norwich, got him into more
trouble, and lie was condemned
to another line of 5000, to lose
the remainder of his' ears, and to
be branded on both, cheeks with
the letters SL (for u seditious
libeller " but humorously inter-
preted by Prynne as " stigmata
Laud is "). The Long Parliament
in 1640 granted his release. Soon
after he entered Parliament and
took a prominent part; in the trial
of Laud, publishing an account of
it entitled (.hintcrburies Doom. After
the fall of Charles 1, .Prynne
opposed Cromwell, who had "him
again imprisoned. His pen never
rested for a moment, and he carried
on single-handed a paper war
against the Government;, lie was
a keen advocate of the Restoration,
and after the return of Charles was
appointed keeper of the records
in the Tower, u to keep him quiet ",
In this capacity he did much, useful
work. lie died in 1669, having
written some two hundred works,
in all of winch his learning outran
his judgment and his xeal his
discretion.
Only one of his two hundred
productions is remembered, Jlis-
Irio-Mastix is not a contribution to
literature; but it is famous because
it summed up the case for the
Puritans against; the stage, and be-
cause of the brutal punishment
which it brought upon its author,
It is a forbidding book, even in its
title, which is almost a pamphlet
in itself, and in its Errata; Prynne
roars loud and thunders in the
index also. His book, indeed,
reminds us of the epic poem of
WILLIAM PRYNNE
347
Orestes, of which Juvenal tells us
" summi plena iam margine libri
Scriptus et in tergo, nee dum finitus".
Seventy-one fathers and fifty-five
synods are quoted; in fact the
margin is one solid mass of second-
hand quotation, as odd and as fusty
as a second-hand clothes shop.
His predecessors in attacking the
stage borrowed quotations one from
another, and the ever-rolling stream
of quotation emptied itself into
the ocean of Histrio-Mastix. This
was in accordance with the con-
troversial methods of the dav, and
*< <*
cannot be entirelv attributed to
j
Prynne's idiosyncrasy. His book
is not likely to be entirely forgotten,
though it is a monument of misdi-
rected zeal and misapplied learning.
[S. R. Gardiner, Documents relat-
ing to the Proceedings against William
Prynne in 1634 an ^ ^37\ r ^> B.
Howell, A Complete Collection of
State Trials (Vol. III).]
From "Histrio-Mastix"
Saint Augustine, writing of the honour (not of the adoration, a thing
not then in use) which the Christians gave the Martyrs in his age; in-
formes us; that they did neither exhilerate them with their crimes;
nor yet with filthy Playes, with which the Gentiles did usually delight
their Idol-gods. Yet our novellizing Romanists, (who vaunt so much
of antiquity, though their whole Religion, (wherein they varry from
us) be but novelty) abandoning the pious practice of these Primitive
Christians, (conscious to themselves no doubt, that many of their late
Canonized Tiburne -Martyrs, were no other, no better then the devil-
gods of Pagans, who were oft-times deified for their notorious villanies,
as Popish Saints are for their matchlesse treasons;) have not onely adored
them as gods, erecting temples to their names and worship: but like-
wise solemnized their anniversary commemorations, by personating
in their severall Temples, the blasphemous lying Legends of their lives
and miracles, (so fit for no place as the Stage itself e) In some theatricall
shewes; adoring and honouring them in no other manner, then the
very Pagans did their Devil-gods, with whom these hell-saints are most
aptly paralleld. Such honour, such worship give the Papists to our blessed
Saviour, to these their idolized Saints, as thus to turne, not onely their
Priests into Players, their Temples, into Theaters; but even their very
miracles, lives, and sufferings into Playes, To leave the Papists and
close up this Scene. It is recorded of one Porphery a Pagan Stage-player,
that he grew to such an height of impiety, as he adventured to baptize
himselfe in jest upon the Stage, of purpose to make the people laugh
at Christian Baptisme, and so to bring both it and Christianity into
contempt: and for this purpose he plunged himselfe into a vessell of
water which he had placed on the Stage, calling aloud upon the Trinity:
at which the Spectators fell into a great laughter. But loe the good-
WILLIAM MtYNNK
nesse of God to this prophane miscreant; it: pleased (Joel to shew such
a demonstration of his power and grace upon him, that this sporting
baptisrne of his, became a serious laver of regeneration to him: \i\ so
much that of a graeelesse Player, he became a gracious Christian, and not
long after, a constant Martyr. The like I find resist red of one Anlalion,
another Heathen Actor, who in derision of the holy Sacrament, of Bap-
tismc, baptized himselfe in jest upon the Stage, and by that; inclines
became a Christian; Cods mercy turning this his wickcdncsse to his
eternal! good: not any wayes to justiiie Playes or Players, or to coun-
tenance this his audacious prophannesse; but: even miraculously to
publish to the world the power of his owne holy Ordinances, which
by the co-operation of his Spirit, are even then able to regenerate those
who most contemne them, when they are used but in scorne, These
notable histories, with, the premises, sutlictently evidence, the subject
mattQr of Btage-playcs to be oft-times impious, sacrilegious, blasphemous;
from whence 1 raise this ninth, Argument.
That whose subject matter is impious, sacri legions, blasphemous, must;
needs be sinfull and imluwfull unto Christians. Witnesse LcvlL .14, i i to 17,
2 Kings 19, 6, as. Isay 37, 6, 33.^,, 52, 5, JMatth. ju, 31. ,Ltike 2U, 65.
1 Tim. i, 20.
But such oft-times, is the subject matter of Slsitfc-pluyen: witnesse ihe
premises.
Therefore they must needs be sinfull and unlawfull unto Christians.
THOMAS RANDOLPH
( 1605-1635)
THOMAS RANDOLPH was born near
Daventry in 1605. His father was
steward to Lord Zoueh. lie was
a precocious child, and at; the age
of ten wrote The History of the
Incarnation of our Saviour in verse.
His mature work was not so
edifying. lie was educated at
Westminster and Trinity College,
Cambridge, where he graduated
B.A. in 1628 and M.A.'iu 1632,
in which year he also became' n
major Fellow of his college. While
still an undergraduate he became
acquainted with Ben Jonson, who
adopted him as one of his " sons ".
c< They both, of them loved sack,
and harmless mirth/' as the pre-
face to one of Randolph's plays
informs us. In 1030 Randolph
published his (irst work, Anstifipiis,
or Ihe Jovial! Philosopher, To which
is added The (loncetted Pedler,
AristippttSi which, is written in
prose interspersed with verse, util-
izes Aristotelian logic to defend
sack and attack .small beer. It was
written to be privately performed
at the university. The (Conceited
Pedler is a highly amusing mono-
logue. The Jealous Lwem, a comedy
in blank verse, was performed
THOMAS RANDOLPH
349
before the king and queen at
Cambridge in 1632. It is more
ambitious, but also more self-
conscious, than the rest of Ran-
dolph's work, and cannot be
reckoned a success. The Muses*
Looking-Glasse, Randolph's master-
piece, was probably acted in 1632,
though not printed until 1638. It
is a very clever and original play, a
curious blend of Aristotle and
Aristophanes, which endeavours to
prove that virtue is a mean between
two extremes of vice. Jonson's
influence is plainly to be seen.
Amyntas, or the Impossible Dowry
is a well-finished but artificial
pastoral play. Hey for Honesty,
down with Knavery, a free adapta-
tion of Aristophanes' Plutus, is
probably not by Randolph. Ran-
dolph's poems are full of promise
and vigour, and, had his meteoric
career not been cut short at the
early age of twenty-nine, he might
have attained great heights. He
was a true " son " of Jonson's; his
plays were satirical rather than
dramatic, and he was a great con-
sumer of sack. Unlike Jonson,
how r ever, he was learned without
being pedantic, and although his
work was addressed to the micro-
cosm of Cambridge rather than to
the macrocosm of London, he had
a larger share of the spirit of Aris-
tophanes than is given to most
English writers.
[K. Kottas, Thomas Randolph,,
sein Leben und seme Werke\ W. C.
Hazlitt, The Poetical and Dramatic
Works of Thomas Randolph', Re-
trospective Review, Vol. VI, pp.
61-87.]
From "The Muses 5 Looking-Glasse"
MISTRESS FLOWERDEW. BIRD. Roscius.
BIRD
My indignation boileth like a pot
An over-heated potstill, still it boileth;
It boileth, and it bubbleth with disdain.
MISTRESS FLOWERDEW
My spirit within me too fumeth, I say,
Fumeth and stearneth up, and runneth o'er
With holy wrath, at these delights of flesh.
Roscius
The actors beg your silence. The next virtue whose extreme we
would present wants a name both in the Greek and Latin.
BIRD
Wants it a name? 'tis an unchristian virtue.
;o THOMAS RANDOLPH
Rose nis
But they describe it such a modesty as directs us In the pursuit and
fusal of the meaner honours, and so answers to Magnanimity, as Liber-
ty to Magnificence. But here, that humour of the persons, being already
recalled, and no pride now so much practised or countenanced as that
apparel, let me present you Philotimiu, an over-curious lady, too neat
her attire, and, for Aphilotimus, Luparius, a nasty, sordid sloven.
Pride is a vanity worthy the correction.
PlIILOTlMIA, LUPAfttUS.
PmiOTIMtA
What mole drcss'cl me to-day? patience!
Who would be troubled with these mop-eyM chamber-maids?
There's a whole hair on this side more than t* other,
I am no lady eke! Come on, you sloven,
Was ever Christian madam so tormented
o wed a swine as I am.? make you ready,
LUPARIUS
I would the tailor had been luing'd, for me,
That first invented clothes. nature, nature!
More cruel unto man than all thy creatures!
Calves come into the world with doublets on;
And oxcu have no breeches to put; o(F,
The lamb is born with her frieze-coat about; her;
Hogs go to bed in rest, and are not troubled,
With pulling on their hose and shoes i' th } morning,
With gartering, girdling, trussing, buttoning,
And a thousand torments that allliet humanity.
PmiOTIMIA
To see her negligence! she hath made this cheek
By much too pale, and hath forgot to whiten
The natural redness of my nose; she knows not
What 'tis wants dcalbation. fine memory!
If she has not set me in the selfsame teeth
That I wore yesterday, I am a Jew.
Does she think that I can eat twice with the same,
THOMAS RANDOLPH 351
Or that my mouth stands as the vulgar does?
What, are you snoring there? you'll rise, you sluggard,
And make you ready?
LUPARIUS
Rise and make you ready?
Two works of that your happy birds make one;
They, when they rise, are ready. Blessed birds!
They (fortunate creatures!) sleep in their own clothes,
And rise with all their feather-beds about them.
Would nakedness were come again in fashion;
I had some hope then, when the breasts went bare,
Their bodies, too. would have come to *t in time,
PHILOTIMIA
Beshrew her for J t, this wrinkle is not fuTd
You'll go and wash you are a pretty husband!
LUPARIUS
Our sow ne'er washes, yet she has a face
Methinks as cleanly, madam, as yours is,
If you durst wear your own.
COLAX
Madam Superbia,
You're studying the lady's library,
The looking-glass: 'tis well! so great a beauty
Must have her ornaments. Nature adorns
The peacock's tail with stars; 'tis she attires
The bird of paradise in all her plumes;
She decks the fields with various flowers; 'tis she
Spangled the heavens with all those glorious lights;
She spotted th' ermine's skin, and arm'd the fish
In silver mail. But man she sent forth naked,
Not that he should remain so, but that he,
Endued with reason, should adorn himself
With every one of these. The silkworm is
Only man's spinster, else we might suspect
That she esteem'd the painted butterfly
Above her masterpiece. You are the image
Of that bright goddess, therefore wear the jewels
Of all the East; let the Red Sea be ransack'd
THOMAS RANDOLPH
To make you glitter. Look on, Luparius,
Your husband there, and see how in a sloven
All the best eharaeters of divinity,
Not yet worn out in mini, are lost and burled,
PlIILOTTMIA
I sec it to my grief; pray, counsel him.
Cor AX
This vanity in, your nice lady's humours,
Of being so curious in her toys and dresses,
Makes me suspicious of her honesty.
These cobweb lawns cateh, spiders, sir, believe:
You know that clothes do not commend the man,
But 'tis the living; though this age prefer
A cloak of plush before a brain of art.
You understand what misery it is to have
No worth hut that we owe the draper for.
No doubt you, spend the time your lady loses
In tricking up her body, to clothe the soul.
To clothe the soul? must the soul, too be elolliAl?
I protest, sir, 1 had rather have no soul
Than be tormented with the clothing of it.
(Act IV, fifc.i.)
"X)HN FORD
[IN FORD was born at: Ilsington,
svonshirc, in 1586, lie came of
rood family, and was nephew to
John Popham, the Lord Chief
stice. Very little is known for
tain about his life, and it is not
own when he died. He may
^e been for a short time at Exeter
Allege, Oxford; he was admitted
member of the Middle Temple
in ,1602. As a young man he wrote
some poetry of little merit; it; is
as a dramatist that he is famous.
He is believed, to have been of
independent means, which bred
independent manners in his work.
The Hun's Darling, a masque in
which Ford collaborated with
Dekker or, more probably, revised
Dckkcr's work, appeared in 1624.
JOHN FORD
353
Ford collaborated with Dekker and
with Rowley in the admirable
domestic drama The Witch of
Edmonton (?i622), but it is prob-
able that his share in this play was
a small one. His first independent
play was The Lover's Melancholy
(1628), a play strongly influenced
by Burton's Anatomy of Melan-
choly. It contains the famous story
of the nightingale and the lutanist,
taken from Strada's Prolusiones.
His next play, The Broken Heart
(printed 1633), ^ s one ^ tne best
and most celebrated of Ford's
plays, though when Charles Lamb
says that the death of Calantha
almost bears him in imagination to
Calvary and the Cross, he would
appear to be guilty of hyperbole
as well as irreverence. Love's
Sacrifice (also printed 1633) has
an absurd plot but much fine
writing in it. 'Tis Pity she's a
Whore (printed 1633), like the lost
Aeolus of Euripides, turns upon
the incestuous love of a brother
and sister. In spite of its revolting
subject, and in spite of the sensa-
tionalism that mars much of Ford's
work, it is an arresting play and is
most skilfully constructed. Perkin
Warbeck (printed 1634) is a return
to the chronicle-history play which
had long been out of fashion. The
background of reality has helped
Ford to check the extravagances of
his fancy, and the play is a good
one. The Fancies, Chaste and Noble
and The Lady's Trial (1638) both
mark a distinct decline. After the
publication of the latter play Ford
drops out of sight. Four other
plays by him were destroyed by
Betsy Baker, John Warburton's
cook.
After the appearance of the
First Folio of Shakespeare in 1623
VOL. ii.
drama became more literary. This
partly explains why Ford's work
differs from that of his predeces-
sors. He was able to study the
work of the older playwrights In
book form, and to look forward to
having his own plays published
eventually. Hence he took more
pains than those earlier writers
who merely prepared plays to be
acted. He was a careful, deliberate
workman, who wrote mainly to
please himself. Much of his work
is marred by sensationalism. All
commonplace plots had been already
used up, and he seems to have felt
that excitement must be kept up
at all costs. Hence he deals with
subjects untouched by Shakespeare,
and introduces scenes like that in
which Giovanni rushes to meet his
father with the heart of his sister
and paramour on a dagger. Aris-
totle in a famous passage tells us
that, among spectators of tragedies,
fear is aroused by the misfortunes
of a man like themselves. Ford's
heroes and heroines are too excep-
tional to excite complete sympathy.
He is not " loth to make nature
afraid in his plays, to mix his head
with other men's heels ". He had
no sense of humour, and sinks
below all the other Jacobean drama-
tists in the bad quality of his
attempts at comic relief. He was
however, a beautiful writer of
blank verse, he had great mastery
over some of the technical diffi-
culties of his art, and above all he
had a deep knowledge of the
passions and contradictory im-
pulses of the human heart.
[W. GifTord (revised by A.
Dyce), The Works of John Ford]
A. C. Swinburne, Essays and
Studies.]
354 JOHN FORD
From "The Broken Heart' 5
(While CALANTHA (Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the nuptials
of PROPIIILUS and KUHIRANKA at court with MUSIC and dancing,
one enters to inform her that the King her fu flier is dead; a second
brings the news that PHNTHKA (sister to ITIIOCLHK) is starved; and
a third comes to tell that ITIIOCLKS himself (to whom the Princess is
contracted) is cruelly murdered.)
CALANTHA. PROPITIOUS. EUPIIRANKA. NICARCIIUH. CROTOLON,
CIIRISTALLA. PIULKMA. And Others.
CALANTIIA
We miss our servant Tthoclcs, and Origins;
On whom attend they?
CROTOLON
My son, gracious princess,
Whisper 'd some new device, to which these revels
Should be but usher; wherein, I conceive,
Lord Idiocies and he himself are actors,
CALANTHA
A fair excuse for absence: as for Bassanes,
Delights to him are troublesome; Armostes
Is with the king.
CROTOLON
He is.
CALANTIIA
On to the dance:
(To NEARCIIUS) Dear cousin, hand you the bride; the
bridegroom must be
Entrusted to my courtship: be not jealous,
Euphranca; I shall scarcely prove a temptress.
Fall to our dance.
(They dance the first change, during
7vhick ARMOSTES enters.)
ARMOSTES
The king your father's dead,
JOHN FORD 355
CALANTHA
To the other change.
ARMOSTES
Is it possible?
(They dance again: BASSANES enters.}
BASSANES
O madam,
Penthea, poor Penthea's starved.
CALANTHA
Beshrew thee,
Lead to the next.
BASSANES
Amazement dulls my senses.
(They dance again: ORGILUS enters.)
?,
ORGILUS
Brave Ithocles is murder'd, murder'd cruelly.
CALANTHA
How dull this music sounds! Strike up more sprightly:
Our footings are not active like our hearts
Which treads the nimbler measure.
ORGILUS
I am thunderstruck.
(They dance the last change. The music ceases.)
CALANTHA
So, let us breathe awhile: hath not this motion
Raised fresher colour on your cheeks? (To NEARCHUS.)
NEARCHUS
Sweet princess,
A perfect purity of blood enamels
The beauty of your white,
JOHN FORD
CALANTIIA
We all look cheerfully:
And, cousin, 'tis mcthinks a rare presumption
In any, who prefers our lawful pleasures
Before their own sour censure, to interrupt
The custom of this ceremony bluntly.
NEARCIIUS
None dares, lady.
CALANTIIA
Yes, yes; some hollow voice delivered to me
How that the king was dead.
AUMOSTKS
The king is dead:
That fatal news was mine; for in mine arms
He breathed his last, and with his crown bequeathed you
Your mother's wedding-ring, which here I tender.
CRQTOLON
Most strange.
CALANTIIA
Peace crown his ashes: we are queen then.,
NEARCIIUS
Long live Calantha, Sparta's sovereign queen.
ALL
Long live the queen.
CALANTIIA
What whisper'd Bassanes?
BASSANES
That my Penthea, miserable soul,
Was starved to death.
CALANTIIA
She's happy; she hath finished
A long and painful progress. A third murmur
Pierced mine unwilling ears.
JOHN FORD 357
ORGILUS
That Ithocles
Was murder 3 d.
CALANTHA
By whose hand?
ORGILUS
By mine: this weapon
Was instrument to my revenge. The reasons
Are just and known. Quit him of these, and then
Never lived gentleman of greater merit,
Hope, or abiliment to steer a kingdom.
CALANTHA
We begin our reign
With a first act of justice: thy confession
Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence;
But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence
Shall be excused; give, Crotolon, a blessing
To thy lost son; Euphranea, take a farewell:
And both begone.
(To ORGILUS) Bloody relater of thy stains in blood;
For that thou hast reported him (whose fortunes
And life by thee are both at once snatch'd from him)
With honourable mention, make thy choice
Of what death likes thee best; there's all our bounty.
But to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin,
Entreat you and these lords see execution
Instant, before ye part.
NEARCHUS
Your will commands us.
ORGILUS
One suit, just queen; my last. Vouchsafe your clemency,
That by no common hand I be divided
From this my humble frailty.
CALANTHA
To their wisdoms,
Who are to be spectators of thine end,
I make the reference. Those that are dead,
Are dead; had they not now died, of necessity
They must have paid the debt they owed to nature
353 JOHN FORD
One time or other. Use despatch, my lords.- -
We'll suddenly prepare our coronal ion. [Exit.
AUMOSTHS
Tis strange these tragedies should never touch on
Her female pity.
BASSANES
She has a masculine spirit,
(The Coronation of ihe Princess lakes place, after the execution of
ORGILUS.- She enters ihe Temple, dressed in white, having a
crown on her head. She kneels at the altar. The dead body of
ITHOCLES (whom she should have married) is borne on a hearse, in
rich robes, having a crown on. his head; and placed by flic sida of
the allar, where she kneels. Her devotions ended, she rises.)
CALANTIIA. NEARCIIUS. PROVHILUS. CROTOLON. BASSANHS,
ARMOSTES. EUPIIRANKA. AMHLUS. CIIRISTALLA.
PIIILUMA. And Others,
CALANTIIA
Our orisons are heard, the gods are merciful.
Now tell me, you, whose loyalties pay tribute
To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful
Your duties, or obedience is, to render
Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin;
Who have been ever fortunate in princes
Of masculine and stirring composition .
A woman has enough to govern wisely
Her own demeanours, passions, and divisions,
A nation warlike, and inured to practice
Of policy and labour, cannot brook
A feminate authority: we therefore
Command your counsel, how you may advise us
In choosing of a husband, whose abilities
Can better guide this kingdom.
NEARCIIUS
Royal lady,
Your law is in your will
ARMOSTES
We have seen tokens
Of constancy too lately to mistrust it.
JOHN FORD
CROTOLON
Yet if your highness settle on a choice
By your own judgment both allow'd and liked of,
Sparta may grow in power and proceed
To an increasing height.
CALANTHA
Cousin of Argos.
NEARCHUS
Madam.
CALANTHA
Were I presently
To choose you for my lord, I'll open freely
What articles I would propose to treat on,
Before our marriage,
NEARCHUS
Name them, virtuous lady.
CALANTHA
I would presume you would retain the royalty
Of Sparta in her own bounds: then in Argos
Armostes might be viceroy; in Messene
Might Crotolon bear s\vay; and Bassanes
Be Sparta's marshal:
The multitude of high employments could no
But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen,
Groneas and Lemophil, with worthy pensions,
Should wait upon your person in your chamber.
I would bestow Christalla on Amelus;
She'll prove a constant wife: and Philema
Should into Vesta's temple.
\
BASSANES
This is a testament;
It sounds not like conditions on a marriage.
NEARCHUS
All this should be perform'd.
CALANTHA
Lastly, for Prophilus,
He should be (cousin) solemnly invested
JOHN FORD
In all those honours, titles, and preferments,
Which his clear friend and my neglected husband
Too short a time enjoy 7 d,
PROPHILXJS
I am unworthy
To live in your remembrance,
KUPIIKANKA
Excellent lady,
NEARCIIUS
Madam, what means that word, neglected husband?
CALANTIIA
Forgive me, Now I turn to thee, them shadow
[To 'the dead body of I HIGGLES.
Of my contracted lord: bear witness all,
I put my mother's wedding-ring upon
His linger; 'twas my father's last; bequest:
Thus I new marry him, whose wife 1 am;
Death shall not separate us. () my lords,
I but deceived your eyes with autick gesture,
When one news straight came huddling on another,
Of death, and death, and death; still 1 danced forward
But it struck home, and here, and in an instant.
Be such mere women, who with shrieks and, outcries
Can vow a present end to all their sorrows;
Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them.
They arc the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings:
Let me die smiling.
NEARCIIUS
J Tis a truth too ominous.
CALANTIIA
One kiss on these cold lips; my last. Crack, crack.
Argos now's Sparta's king. [Dies*
JAMES SHIRLEY
361
JAMES SHIRLEY
( 1596- 1666)
JAMES SHIRLEY was born in London
in 1596. He was educated at Mer-
chant Taylors' School, St. John's
College, Oxford, and Catherine
Hall, Cambridge. Laud, then
President of St. John's College,
Oxford, believing that the clergy
should be without spot or blemish,
advised him not to take holy orders
because he had a large mole on his
left cheek. Shirley, however, after
his sojourn at Cambridge, spurned
this advice, but soon afterwards
joined the Church of Rome and
became a schoolmaster. In 1625
he commenced his prolific career
as playwright, and between that
date and the closing of the theatres
in 1642 he wrote some thirty-seven
plays seven tragedies, twenty-
four comedies (some of them
romantic comedies, others comedies
of manners), three masques, and
three nondescript plays. The best
of his tragedies are The Traitor
(1631), Love's Cruelty (1631), and
The Cardinal (1641); of his come-
dies, The Witty Pair One (1628),
Hyde Park (1632), The Gamester
(1633), and The Lady of Pleasure
(1635) are tne best known. In
1634 Shirley was chosen to write
the great masque, The Triumph of
Peace, which the four Inns of
Court presented to the king and
queen. From 1636 to 1640 Shirley
lived in Dublin, assisting John
Ogilby with the theatre he had
opened in Werburgh Street in
1635, an( i producing at least four
plays there. His work appealed to
King Charles and Queen Henrietta
Maria, and was widely popular.
His relations with his fellow-
dramatists were peculiarly happy;
he collaborated with Chapman,
Ford, and Massinger, and is be-
lieved to have revised many of the
" Beaumont and Fletcher " plays,
one of which, The Coronation, was
his unaided work. Shirley was,
of course, an ardent Royalist; in
1633 ne na d attacked Prynne in the
dedication of A Bird in a Cage; he
accordingly accompanied his patron,
the Earl (afterward Marquess and
Duke) of Newcastle, in the cam-
paigns of 1642-1644. Afterwards
Shirley retired to London, resumed
his career as a schoolmaster, and
devoted himself to the composition
of Latin grammars. After the
Restoration several of Shirley's
plays were revived, but he did not
write any new ones. He died as a
result of the Great Fire, being
" over come with affrightments, dis-
consolations, and other miseries''.
He appears to have been a man
of a modest and amiable dis-
position, and to have had no
enemies.
Shirley is important, not so
much on his own account, as be-
cause he was the last of " the giant
race before the flood " His plays,
the product of a happy copiousness,
run on familiar lines, and are with-
out violence or exaggeration. He
is a more equal writer than Ford
or Massinger, though he does not
rise to the heights which they
sometimes attain. As a poet he is
best remembered for his lyric
The Glories of our Blood and State.
At his death the last link between
6s JAM US SIIIRLKY
he Elizabethan and the Restoration by A. Dycc); K. S. Forsythe, The
Relation of tilth- Icy* $ /'/</w /o ike
tage was broken.
[W. Gilford, Dramatic Works Elizabethan Drama\ A. fl.
nd Poems of James Shirley (revised James N/ifrlcy, Drama list, \
From "The Lady o( : Pleasure"
>Vr Thomas BORNKWF.LL expostulates with his Lady on
her extravagance and love, of
BORNKWKIVL, Aui-rriNA, Iiis lady.
ARKTINA
I am angry with myself;
To he so miserably restrained in, tiling's,
Wherein it cloth, concern, your love ami honour
To see me satisfied,
IJOKNHWHU,
In what, Aretina,
Dost thou accuse me? have I not obey'd
All thy desires, against; mine own opinion;
Quitted the country, and removed the hop v k
Of our return,, by sale of that fair lordship
We lived in: chunked a culm and retired, life
For this wild town, composed of noise and charge?
AttHTINA
What charge, more than is necessary
For a lady of my birth and education?
BOUNKWKIJ,
I am, not; ignorant how much nobility
Flows in your blood, your kinsmen great; and powerful
Ja the state; but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife: 1 shall be studious,
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth
All the best ornaments whieh become my fortune;
But would not; flatter it, to ruin both,
And be the fable of the town, to teach
Other men \vit by loss of mine, employed
To serve your vast expenses.
JAMES SHIRLEY
ARETINA
Am I then
Brought in the balance? so, sir.
BORNEWELL
Though you weigh
Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest;
And must take liberty to think, you have
Obey'd no modest counsel to effect,
Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony;
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures,
Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's;
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate
Antic and novel; vanities of tires,
Fourscore pound suppers for my lord your kinsman,
Banquets for the other lady, aunt, and cousins;
And perfumes, that exceed all; train of servants,
To stifle us at home, and show abroad
More motley than the French, or the Venetian,
About your coach, whose rude postilion
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls,
And common cries pursue your ladyship
For hindering of their market.
ARETINA
Have you clone, sir?
BORNEWELL
I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe,
And prodigal embroideries, under which,
Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare
Not show their own complexions; your jewels,
Able to burn out the spectators' eyes,
And show like bonfires on you by the tapers:
Something might here be spared, with safety of
Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers.
I could urge something more.
ARETINA
Pray, do, I like
Your homily of thrift.
JAMES SHIRLEY
BQRNKWKLL
I could wish, nuuliim,
You would not game so much.
AlWTINA
A gamester, too!
BOKNUWEU,
But arc not conic to that repentance yet,
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit;
You look not through the subtlety of cards,
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls,
And keep your family by the precious income;
Nor do I wish you should: my poorest servant
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor I us hire
Purchased beneath my honour; you make play
Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex
Yourself and my estate by it.
AKKTINA
Good, proceed.
BORNKWKLL
Another game you have, which consumes more
Your fame than purse, your revels in the night,
Your meetings, calPtl the ball, to which appear,
As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants
And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena
Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure:
Tis but the family of Love, translated
Into more costly sin; there was a play on it;
And had the poet not been bribed to a modest
Expression of your antic gambols in it,
Some darks had been discovered; and the deeds too;
In time he may repent, and make some blush,
To sec the second part danced on the stage,
My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me
By any foul act; but the virtuous know,
'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the
Suspicions of our shame.
JAMES SHIRLEY
ARETINA
Have you conclude cl
Your lecture?
BoRNEWiiLL
I have clone; and howsoever
My language may appear to you, it carries
No other than my fair and just intent
To your delights, without curb to their modest
And noble freedom.
ARETINA
I'll not be so tedious
In my reply, but, without art or elegance,
Assure you I keep still my first opinion;
And though you veil your avaricious meaning
With handsome names of modesty and thrift,
I find you would intrench and wound the liberty
I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged
By example; while my judgment thought them fit,
You ought not to oppose; but when the practice
And tract of every honourable lady
Authorize me, I take it great injustice
To have my pleasures circumscribed and taught me
A Dirge
The glories of our blood and state
Arc shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they lull;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another slill:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
JAIN IKS SHIRLEY
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, poor captives, creep to death,.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon .Death's purple altar now
See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come
To the eold tomb,
Only the actions of the just:
Smell sweet and blossom in, their dust.
(From The (lonlcntion of Ajax and Ulyms!)
APPENDIX
WILLIAM CAMDEN (1551-1623)
was born in London and educated
at Christ's Hospital and St. Paul's,
and at Broadgates Hall (Pembroke
College) and Christ Church, Ox-
ford. He was appointed second
master of Westminster School in
1575, and became headmaster
eighteen years later. He devoted
his leisure and his holidays to the
study of British antiquities; and
began to collect material for his
great work, the Kritannia, which
gives a topographical and historical
account of the British Isles from
the earliest ages. It was published
in Latin in 1586; later editions were
considerably enlarged and improved,
and it was translated into English,
by Philemon Holland (q.v.) in 1610,
under the supervision of Camden
himself. In 1597 Camden was
appointed Clarcnceux King - of -
Arms, and found himself more at
leisure to pursue his studies. His
second great work, Annaks Rcrum
Anglicarum rcgnante Elisabctha,
appeared in Latin in 1615 and was
translated in 1625; a second part
(posthumously published to avoid
adverse criticism) appeared in 1627
and a translation of it in 1629.
Camden's other works include a
Greek grammar, which had an.
exceptionally long life, and Remains
concerning Britain^ published anony-
mously in 1605. He died in 1623
at Chislehurst, in Kent, in the house
which was afterwards that of Napo-
leon HI, He wrote mostly in Latin,
but the English translations of his
works were early and good, lie
was an excellent chronicler and,
better than that, an able historian.
His history of the reign of Eliza-
beth is in good perspective, as ho
lived neither too near to nor too
far from the events which be
chronicles. Ben Jonson, a former
pupil of Camden's, called him " the
glory and light of our kingdom, ",
and attributed to him, all his own
learning and love of scholarship.
RICHARD STANYHURST (1547-
1618) was born in, Dublin. His
father was recorder of Dublin and
Speaker of the Irish House of
Commons, and his nephew was
the celebrated Archbishop James
Ussher (1581-1656). He was edu-
cated at Watcrford and at Univer-
sity College, Oxford, where he
graduated BA, in 1568. tie
studied law, but his interests lay
in literature and archeology, and
he contributed the sections dealing
with Ireland to Uolinshed's Chroni-
cles (1578). After the death of bis
first wife fetany hurst left the British
Isles for ever, lived in the Low
Countries and Spain, became u
Roman Catholic, and was employed
in secret service by the King of
368
APPENDIX
Spain; after the death of his
second wife he became a Roman,
Catholic priest. He wrote several
learned works in Latin, but is only
remembered on account of his
grotesque translation of the first
four books of Virgil's Aeneid into
English hexameters, published at
Leyden in 1582. This translation
is at once stilted and low; it is full
of eccentricities and of verbal
coinages which have been the
subject of the inevitable German
thesis. His translation soon be-
came a byword; it fe still unin-
tentionally entertaining. It is
curious how a sensible man came
to write such a burlesque version
in all good faith. Barnahe Rich
justly says that Stanyhurst stripped
Virgil " out of a Velvet gownc into
a Fooles coat". The translation
was reprinted by Professor K.
Arber in 1880,
BARNABE RICH (?i54o-?i6ao) was
an Essex man and had a long and
varied career as a soldier in the Low
Countries and in Ireland. Three
or four years before his death he
was presented with ^ too on account
of his being the oldest captain in
the kingdom. During his military
career he wrote many denunciatory
pamphlets and several cuphuistic
romances. The chief subjects of
his denunciations were Ireland,
Roman Catholicism, and tobacco,
His most celebrated work is a col-
lection of eight romances, bearing
the misleading title of Rich his
Farewell to Militarie Profession,
published in 1581. One of these
romances is the source of part of
the plot of Twelfth Night, and
another is the direct source of that
unpleasing but almost unique
Scottish comedy Philotus (printed
in 1603). Another of Rich's ro-
mances is entitled The Strange
and Wonderful Adventures of Don
Simonides (1584). Rich was no
poet, but his prose is by no means
contemptible.
JOSUAU SYXVKSTKR (1563-1618)
was a Kcntishman and was edu-
cated at Southampton. He was u
good French scholar, but entered
a trading firm at an early age and
wrote poetry in his spare time. In
1606 he was appointed groom of
the chamber to Prince Henry, and
in 1613 became secretary to the
merchant adventurers and went
to live in IVIiddelburg, in Holland,
where he died live years later. IBs
original poems are entirely and
quite justifiably forgotten; but he
is still remembered as the trans-
lator of the works of Du Ikutas
(1544-1590), the French Huguenot
poet. Sylvester cle voted most of
his life to Du Bartas, with whose
theological views lie wus hi com-
plete sympathy; his first translation
appeared in 1590, and the first
collective edition, of K arias his
Dcvine Weekrs and Workcs appeared
in 1606, It is in rhymed decasyl-
labic verse, and is full of conceits
and absurdities. its popularity,
which was considerable, did not
last longer than to the time of the
Restoration or thereabouts. Milton,
read Du Bairtas in this translation
when at an impressionable age,
and his perusal of it left traces,
unimportant hut clistiact, on Para-
dise Lost. A. B. Grosarl edited
Sylvester's works in 1880.
EDWARD FAIRFAX (c. 7580-1635)
was a natural son of Sir Thomas
Fairfax of Dcnton, Yorkshire. His
life was uneventful, and lie settled
APPENDIX
at Newhall, in the parish of Fews-
ton, Yorkshire, to a life of studious
leisure, diversified only by witch-
hunting. His original poems are
valueless, but in 1600, when only
twenty years old or thereabouts,
he published Godfrey of Bulloigne
or the Rccoiterie of Jerusalem. Done
into Kntfish heroicall verse by Ed-
ward Fairefax, Gent. This is the best
translation in English of the great
poem of Tasso (1544-1595)) anc j
ranks with Chapman's Homer and
FitzGcrald's Omar Khayyam, and
one or two others, as a translation
which has itself become a classic.
King James was said to have
valued Fairfax's Tasso above all
other English poetry, and King
Charles read it with delight during
his imprisonment. Waller was a
keen admirer of Fairfax, and was
influenced by him,
SIR JOHN JIAUINOTON (is 6 *-
1612) was the son of John Harmg-
ton, who was Henry VIIX's con-
fidential servant and son-in-law.
He was educated at Eton and
Christ's College, Cambridge, and
. i j aw
369
translations, was the worst ", The
Metamorphosis of Ajax y which does
not deal with classical mythology,
and whose title contains a pun
which is fortunately only intelligible
to the antiquarian, appeared in
1596, and was closely followed by
three similar Rabelaisian pamphlets.
Harington served in Ireland with
Essex, who knighted him; and he
took a keen interest in the affairs
of that country. " I think my very
genius doth in a sort lead me to
that country," he wrote; accord-
ingly he requested to be made
Archbishop of Dublin, a request
which was, not unnaturally, refused.
No " playboy could claim an
equality at comicality" with him;
he remained always a jester at
heart. His miscellaneous works
include epigrams, often more witty
treatise on health. Nugae Antiquae,
a valuable collection of papers by
him or in his possession, was
published in 1769.
GILES FLETCHER, the elder (?i549-
1611), is not to be confused with his
more celebrated son of the same
ladies of the
,
He was employed
ss?
.59.
several
guishcd piece of work; it does not,
however, deserve Jonson's uncom-
promising verdict " That John
Iliiringtcm's Ariosto, under all
VOL, 11,
X to promo^ ill-feeling
and Russ i a , and
48
37
APPENDIX
was not printed In its entirety
until 1856, Fletcher's other literary
work of Importance was a volume
of fifty-two sonnets entitled Licia,
or Poeines of Love (1593), a col-
lection which was frankly imitative.
Unlike most sonneteers, Fletcher
was somewhat declined into the
vale of years; his sonnets arc some-
times good but not spontaneous.
FRANCIS MERES (1565-1647) was
a Lincolnshire man, and was edu-
cated at Pembroke College, Cam-
bridge, where he graduated B.A,
in 1587 and M.A. in 1591, He
took the M.A, degree at Oxford,
by incorporation, in 1593. He
took holy orders, became rector of
Wing, in Rutland, in 1602, trans-
lated two Spanish devotional works,
probably from French versions, and
lived a long and uneventful life.
He is only remembered on account
of his compilation Palladts Tamia,
Wits Treasury, published in Sep-
tember, 1598, and reissued as a
schoolbook in 1634. In it he inter-
polated " A Comparative Discourse
of our English Poets with the Greek,
Latin and Italian Poets ", in which
he mentions Shakespeare as our
most accomplished playwright and
enumerates twelve of his plays*
Meres was a man of small critical
ability; that he anticipated the
verdict of posterity on Shakespeare
was due to good luck more than to
good judgment. He was cuphuistic
in his style, and preferred balance
and symmetry in his sentences to
truth in his statements. He is less
than homo unius Ubri\ he is homo
unius loci, the passage in which he
helps us to date twelve Shake-
spearean plays, speaks of Shake-
speare's " sugred sonnets among
his private friends ", and bequeaths
us the problem of identifying Love's
Labour's Won.
RICHARD BARNFIKLD
was ji Shropshire man, and was
educated at Brasenose College,
Oxford, where he graduated B.A.
in 1592, His three slender volumes
of verse were all published before
he was twenty-five. The Affectionate
Rhcphcard appeared in 1594; it is a
kind of expansion of the second
eclogue of Virgil ( (< that; horrid
one, Beginning with Formomm
pas for Cory don"). His second
volume, Cynthutj appeared, in 1595;
The Kmomion of Lady Pecunki in
i' mr
1598. Barnfiekl seems to have
ended his days as a country squire.
His poems have some of the
qualities of poetic exercises, but
arc pleasing, especially m their
descriptions of rural sights and
sounds. He is perhaps remem-
bered chiefly as the author of two
of the poems attributed to Shake-
speare in the piratical Passionate
Pilgrim ( a If music and sweet
poetry agree " and " As it fell
upon a day"). These two poems
are almost certainly Barnliekl'a,
and several others iu the same
collection may be his.
ABRAHAM FUAXTNCJIC (c. 1:560-
1633) was a Shropshire man, and
was educated at Shrewsbury and
St. John's College, Cambridge,
He was a good lawyer but a very
indifferent poet, and is chiefly
remembered as an indefatigable
producer of English hexameters of
poor quality, lie was a follower of
Gabriel Harvey, and a protege of
Sidney and of Sidney's sister, the
Countess of Pembroke, His works
include The Lamentations of A,min<*
tas for the death of P/ullh, para*
APPENDIX
37*
phrastically translated out of Latine to him, and he attempted many
into English Hexameters (1587) and kinds of literary compositions.
The Countesse of Pembrokes Ivy- Books on farriery and horseman-
church (1591). Some of Jonson's ship, books on husbandry and
remarks to Drummond err on the housewifery, treatises on soldiering
side of brutality, but he was not and archery, poems on Sir Richard
far wrong when he said " That Grenviile and Mary Magdalene,
Abram Francis (sic) in his English and a continuation of Sidney's
Hexameters was a foole
Arcadia all these and many more
works flowed from his Indefatigable
pen. Jonson told Drummond that
Markham " was not of the number
BARNABE BARNES (? 1569-1 609)
was a son of the second Protestant
Bishop of Durham, and was edu- of the faithful! , and but a base
cated at Brasenose College, Ox- fellow ". He certainly knew all
ford, where John Florio (q.v.) was the tricks of his trade; one of his
his servitor. He had a short and, books has no fewer than eight
according to his enemies, an in- dedications, each of which doubt-
glorious career as a soldier before less brought in a pecuniary reward;
publishing, in 1593, his principal he disposed of his remainders by
collection of poems, Parthenophil the simple process of providing
and Parthenophe. This collection
contains a hundred and five sonnets,
them with fresh title pages and
reissuing them as new books. He
besides madrigals, elegies, odes, wrote so frequently on veterinary
&c. There are many echoes of subjects that on i4th July, 1617,
Sidney and Petrarch in it, but he was compelled to sign a paper
Barnes had a great gift of song, and promising to write no more books
did some good work. His Divine on the treatment of diseases of
Centurie of Spiritual! Sonnets, a horses and cattle. His works owe
much less noteworthy collection, more to assiduity than to inspira-
appeared in 1595. His play The tion, but his Maister-peece (1610)
Divils Charter (1607), dealing with ran into its twenty-first edition
Pope Alexander VI, is not memor- in 1734. He is a weakly-sup-
able. Barnes was a friend of ported candidate for having been
Gabriel Harvey, and accordingly the rival poet of Shakespeare's
an enemy of Nash and Campion. Sonnets.
He is one of the candidates for hav-
ing been the rival poet of Shake- GABRIEL HARVEY (?i545~ l6 3 )
speare's Sonnets. His works are was the son of a ropemaker of
not easily accessible.
GERVASE MARKHAM (?is68-i637)
Saffron Walden, and was closely
identified with Cambridge for many
years of his life. He graduated
came of a good Nottinghamshire B.A. from Christ's College in 1570,
family, and served as a soldier for and was elected to a fellowship at
a time in the Low Countries and Pembroke Hall in the same year,
in Ireland. He embarked on the In 1578 he became fellow of
career of a miscellaneous writer at Trinity Hall, and seven years later
an early age, and his output was was appointed master of that toun-
cnormous. No subject came amiss dation, but the appointment was
372
APPENDIX
quashed and never took effect.
Harvey was an angular and difficult
person, and quarrelled with^most
of his acquaintances. lie himself
wrote nothing which can be called
literature, but he is of some im-
portance in literary history for
two reasons. He was Spenser's
friend and perhaps his tutor, and
tried to persuade the poet to
abandon rhyme and write English
hexameters; and he embroiled him-
self with Greene and subsequently
with Nash in an acrimonious con-
troversy which was finally stopped
only by the intervention of the
Archbishop of Canterbury,
PHILIP STUBBES (c. 1555 -. 1610)
was educated at Cambridge and
Oxford, but did not graduate at
either, leading a roving life for
many years and, like Ulysses,
seeing the towns and manners of
many men. lie was a sociologist,
though that unpleasant word was
not coined until some two hundred
and thirty years after his death.
His mind was powerful and origi-
nal; he wrote a life of his wife, who
died when only nineteen years old,
four years after her marriage,
Stubbes's most celebrated work is
The Anatomy of Abuses (1583), the
result of seven years' wanderings,
It gives much valuable information
about the manners and customs of
the times. Stubbes was a Puritan
of the better kind, ardent but not
an extremist, a partisan but willing
to allow that there was something
to be said on the other side. He,
moreover, wrote from observation
and did not, like many of his fellow-
Puritans, merely repeat second-
hand denunciations. It is hardly
necessary to say that he was
vehemently attacked by Nash.
WauAivr IlAiuwTON (//. 1598)
was one of Ilenslowe's hack-writers,
who collaborated with playwrights
such as Chettle, Dckkcr, Day, und
Ilathway. Of his life wo know
almost nothing^ except that iu
March, 1600, he was imprisoned
in the Clink, and Henslowc, who
was not generous, was willing to
pay ten shillings to secure bis
release. Only one extant play is
HaughtonAs unaided work, the very
amusing comedy Knglisli-Mc.n for
my Money: or, A U'omtm will have
her will (1598; printed 1616), He
may have written (trim, l/ie ( Jollier
of Croydon (printed 1662), a much
more old-fashioned type of comedy.
All his other work is lost.
HENRY POUTHR (?*573 ?) was
also one of Ilenslowe's men, and
collaborated with Chettle und with
Jonson. Little is known alx nit his life
except his various pecuniary trans-
actions with llenalowe. lie may
perhaps be identified with a Henry
Porter who was catered at Brasc-
nose College, Oxford, in 1589. In
1598 he collaborated with Jon&on
and Chettle iu Hot Anger noon CWrf,
which has not; been, preserved.
His one play which has survived,
The Two 'Angry Women of Ahingloti
(1599), is a rustic comedy written
with admirable gusto and liveliness.
Its easy prose is hard to match save
in the plays of some of the greatest
of Porter's contemporaries, and
Mall, the hoydenish heroine, is
drawn in a masterly, llogurtbian
style.
ANTHONY MUNDAY (1553- 1633)
was throughout his long life au
unwearied contributor to many
departments of literature. In his
time he played many parts, being
APPENDIX
373
in turn actor, playwright, Protes- Queen Elizabeth entitled Englande's
tant spy, journalist, ballad-maker, Mourning Garment; but he is,
stationer, and draper. His English
Romayne Life (1582), for which he
had gathered materials four years
previously when visiting Italy in
a somewhat dubious capacity, is
not without interest. Munday had
a hand in eighteen plays, of which
only four are extant, John a Kent
and John a Cumber (1595); The
Downfall of Robert, Earle of Hunt-
ingdon (1599); The Death of Robert
Earle of Huntingdon (with Chettle);
and Sir John Oldcastle (1599, with
Dray ton, Hathway, and Wilson).
Munday's numerous ballads are
lost, but his ballad-writing in-
fluenced him in his dramatic work,
both in his choice of subject and
in his treatment. His gifts were of
a homely kind, and he wrote at
least seven city pageants. He also
translated, by no means faithfully,
many romances of chivalry, in-
cluding Palladino of England (1588)
and Amadis de Gaitle. He was
ridiculed by Jonson in The Case is
Altered (1599), and was uncritically-
described by Meres in his Palladis
Tamia as " our best plotter ". He
was John Stow's literary executor,
and in his later years achieved a
position of a kind as doyen of Grub
Street.
HENRY CHETTLE (Pi56o-?i6o7)
was another of Henslowe's men.
He wrote thirteen plays by himself,
of which only one, the powerful
but unequal Tragedy of Hoffman
(acted 1602, very imperfectly
printed 1631) has survived. He
collaborated with Munday, Dray-
ton, Dekker, Wilson, Porter, Jon-
perhaps, chiefly remembered in
literary history as Greene's literary
executor. In this capacity he edited
Greene's Groatsworih of Wit in
1592, and in the following year
apologized in his Kind -Hart's
Dreame to Shakespeare (the passage
is almost universally interpreted
thus) for the offensive allusion in
Greene's death-bed pamphlet.
PHILEMON HOLLAND (1552-1637)
was born at Chelmsford, Essex,
and graduated B.A. in 1571 at
Trinity College, Cambridge, where
he also held a fellowship. He grad-
uated M.D. at some unknown
university, probably Continental or
Scottish, about 1595, and practised
medicine at Coventry. He also was
an usher at the Coventry Free
School, of which he was head-
master for a few months when over
seventy-five years of age. He was
called by Fuller "the Translator
General in his age )J , and his trans-
lations from the classics are numer-
ous, excellent, and extremely uni-
form in their good qualities. He
translated Livy (1600), Pliny's
Natural History (1601), Plutarch's
Moralia (1603), Suetonius (1606),
Ammianus Marcellinus (1609),
Camden's Britannia (revised by
the author, 1610), and Xenophon's
Cyropaedia. Holland was a good
scholar, and was not dependent
upon any French or Italian inter-
mediaries, making his translations
straight from the Greek or Latin.
All his translations are good, but
his Plutarch and Suetonius are of
outstanding merit.
son, Day, and others in thirty-six
plays, of which only four are LANCELOT ANDREWES (1555-
extant. He published an elegy on 1626) was educated under Mul-
374
APPENDIX
caster (q,v.) at Merchant Taylors 1
School and at Pembroke Hall,
Cambridge, of which he became
fellow in 1576 and master in 1589.
He became Dean of Westminster
in 1601 and Bishop of Chichestcr
in 1605; in 1609 he was translated
to Ely and in 1619 to Winchester.
He stood high in Elizabeth's and
even higher in James's estimation.
lie was a man of immense learning,
being acquainted with fifteen lan-
guages, but was even more cele-
brated for his piety. A high-
churchman of the best kind, he
was respected by all parties and was
not unsympathetic towards those
who held different views from his
own. His sermons were considered
by his contemporaries to have
reached the high-water mark of
pulpit eloquence. ( Their learning
and the mental gymnastics dis-
played in them appealed to King
James; to us they often appear
grotesque and in doubtful taste.
Doubtless, like most sermons, they
owed much to their delivery. Tra-
dition tells us that Andrcwes's
delivery was superb.
NICHOLAS BRETON (? 15415- ?i6z6),
whose name is pronounced as if
spelt " Briton ", was the son of a
London merchant and stepson of
the poet George Gaseoigne (q.v.).
He is believed to have been edu-
cated at Oriel College, Oxford.
He was a prolific writer of excep-
tional longevity; his literary career
stretches from 1577 to 1626. lie
wrote both in prose and in verse,
and attempted satires, religious
poems, pastorals, and occasional
poems of all kinds. Some of his
best work is to be found in The
Passionate Shepherd (1604); Wits
Trenchmour (named after a kind
of dance) is a prose angling idyll,
and a pleasing anticipation of
Walton. Breton wrote too much,
but some of his poems are charm-
ing, especially his pastorals. Cer-
tain of his books arc valued as
bibliographical rarities rather than
for the sake of their contents.
SAMUKL Rown<;v (? d. 1633) is
not to be confused with the more
important dramatist William Row-
ley, who is sometimes said to have
been his brother, but only upon
the unsupported testimony of
]. P. Collier. Samuel Rowley was
one of llensloweAs men. Unlike
the majority of dramatisSts, he was
never an actor, but; was employed
as a render and reviser of plays.
His career as author began in i6or.
There is some reason for discredit-
ing him with at least having had
a hand in the comic scenes of
Doctor Fauatus. II is one extant;
play is When you see. mi\ you know
we, or the fatuous (Chronicle Jlistorw
of King lie/trie VI II (acted 1603,
printed 1605), a tfd enough his-
torical play with a strong mixture
of buffoonery. The Nobh tfoldier
(printed 1634) may be in part his
work, but Dekker undoubtedly had
a main hand in it, and it; contains
two scenes interpolated front Day's
Parliament of ttees*
w
EDWARD HUAUHIAM (JJ. 1607)
was a Devonshire man, and was
admitted a member of the Middle
Temple in 1594. That is almost all
we know about him, except that,
in spite of his belonging to a learned
profession, Ben Jonson considered
him a rogue. His two witty farces,
The Flare and Cupid's Whirligig >
were both printed in 1607, having
been aeted not long before this
APPENDIX
375
date. Sharp ham was a lawyer by
profession and merely an amateur
dramatist, who took Middleton as
his model.
JOHN SPEED (?i552-i629) was
the son of a tailor and followed the
same trade himself for many years,
until, owing to the kindness of Sir
Fulke Greville (Lord Brooke, q.v.),
a place was found for him in the
custom-house. He was an accom-
plished antiquarian and carto-
grapher, and between 1608 and
1610 published fifty-four maps of
England and Wales, collected in
1 61 1 and published as Theatre of
the Empire of Great Britaine. In
j */
the same year appeared his great
work, The History of Great Britaine
(Julius Caesar to James I), in the
preparation of which he had been
helped by Cotton, Spelman, and
Barkham. Speed's work is good,
and he has some claim to rank as
an historian, not a mere chronicler.
Fine writing, however, was often
his undoing; he would probably
have written better if he had not
tried to write so well. He shows
some judgment in digesting his
sources, Speed also wrote two
theological works of great popu-
larity but no permanent value.
SIR ROBERT BRUCE COTTON
(1571-1633) made no contribution
to literature himself, but he de-
serves a brief notice on account of
the services he rendered to learn-
ing not only by collecting his
famous library, but by throwing
it open to men who could best
appreciate the privilege men such
as Bacon, Jonson, Speed, Selden,
and Raleigh. Cotton was educated
at Westminster under Camden,
who imbued him with a love for
antiquities, and at Jesus College,
Cambridge, where he graduated B .A.
in 1585. He soon began to gather
together his magnificent collection
of ancient charters, records, and
other MSS. Like many collectors,
he was not over-scrupulous in his
methods of acquiring his treasures,
but, unlike some, he was generous
in giving access to them. He was
knighted in 1603, and was created
a baronet in 1611, the year of the
foundation of that order, which had
been instituted largely owing to his
advice. He got into some trouble
in connexion with the Overbury
case, and in his later years was
imprisoned as a supporter of Parlia-
ment against the king. His death
was hastened by his exclusion from
his library by order of the king.
The Cottonian Library was trans-
ferred to the nation in 1702 and
removed to the British Museum in
SIR JOHN HAYWARD (?i56o-
1627) was a Suffolk man, and was
educated at Pembroke College,
Cambridge, where he graduated
B.A. in 1581, M.A. in 1584, and
LL.D. at some later date. He was
a keen and serious student of
history, and in 1599 acquired some
notoriety by publishing The First
Part of the Life and Raigne of
Henry IV, for which he was im-
prisoned, as the deposition of
Richard II did not commend itself
to the queen as a subject for his-
torical (or dramatic) treatment.
Lives of the HI Normans, Kings of
England appeared in 1613; Hay-
ward's best work, The Life and
Raigne of King Edward the Sixt,
was published posthumously in
1630. Hayward was knighted in
1619. He was a scholarly man, and
376
APPENDIX
endeavoured to follow Latin models, the court wits and would-be wits,
especially Tacitus, when compos- but was by no means the lool he
:- i,:~ i,:^..;** T-Tift wriiinnrs are appeared to be, and sometimes, in
ing his histories. His writings are
not mere compilations, and have
some claim to be regarded as
literature, though his style is some-
what florid.
RICHARD KNOLLES (?i55o-i6io)
was a Northamptonshire man, and
was educated at Lincoln College,
Oxford, of which he became a
fellow. In 1571 he was appointed
master of the grammar-school at
Sandwich, Kent, and held this
post until his death, almost forty
years later. He is essentially homo
unius libri his imposing Gcncrall
Historie of the Turkey which was
originally published in 1603 and
reissued several times, with con-
tinuations by Thomas Nabbcs the
dramatist (1638 edition) and by
Sir Paul Rycaut (1679 and later
editions). Knollcs had a good
though elaborate prose style, and
showed some skill in the arrange-
ment of his material, but he de-
rived much of his information from
second-hand sources, and his book
is not of much value to the his-
torian. It had a great and long-
lived reputation, and was warmly
admired by Dr. Johnson and by
Byron.
THOMAS CORYATIS (? 1577-1617)
was born at the village of Odcombe,
in Somersetshire, and educated at
Gloucester Hall, Oxford, where
he did not graduate. lie was a
man of odd appearance, with a
head shaped like that of Thcrsitcs
as described by Homer; his char-
acter was as eccentric as his appear- SAMUEL PURCHAS , .
ance, and he became a kind of upon whose shoulders the mantle
court-buffoon after the accession of Hakluyt not altogether worthily
of James. He was the butt of all fell, was born in Essex and educated
an exchange of repartees, gave at
least as good as lie got. In 1608 he
travelled to Venice and back,
covering almost two thousand miles,
mainly on foot. Ilia journal
appeared in 1611 with the extra-
ordinary title Coryats Crudities t
J fasti lie gohled up in five monclhs
Trtvoelh 'in France, Sawy, Italy,
RheUa, . . . Helvetia, , , . Ger~
many, and ihe, Netherlands, newly
digested in the hungry aire of Qd-
combe in the (Bounty of Somerset.,
and now dispersed 1o tha nourishment
of the travelling members of this
kingdom. Numerous panegyric
verses, ironically written by emi-
nent contemporaries, were edited
by Ben Jouson and prefixed to this
volume, which was followed in the
same year by two equally oddly-
named supplements. In ^ 1612
Coryate formally hung up in the
church at Odcombe (where his
father had been rector) the shoes
in which he had walked from
Venice, and started again on his
travels. He visited Constantinople,
Asia Minor, Greece, and Egypt,
and went through Palestine, ^Meso-
potamia, and Persia to India, but
died of a flux at Surat, aged forty.
Coryatc, underneath a veneer of
oddity and buffoonery, was a
shrewd observer, and, when he
was not playing the clown, wrote
in a clear and simple style. His
entertaining book was hard to get
hold of until 1905, when it was
reprinted.
APPENDIX
377
at St. John's College, Cambridge.
From 1604 to 1613 he was vicar of
Eastwood, in Essex, and from 1614
until his death rector of St. Mar-
tin's, Ludgate. There is " dam-
nable iteration " in the titles of his
three works, which are Purclias his
Pilgrimage (1613), Purchas his Pil-
grim (1619), and liakliiytus Pos-
ifntmus, or Purchase his Pilgrimes
(1625). Of them the last is by far
the most famous. Purchas had
Hakluyt's assiduity, but not his
literary skill or editorial judgment.
His style is tinged with euphuism,
and he is sometimes careless and
inaccurate. He has, however, pre-
served much material of great value.
SIR ROBERT AYTON (1570-1638)
was born at the castle of Kinaldie,
near St. Andrews, and was educated
at St. Andrews University, where
he graduated M.A. in 1588. He
travelled on the Continent and
studied law, but followed no defi-
nite career for some years. In 1603
he was fortunate enough to address
a Latin hexameter poem to James
which secured that monarch's affec-
tionate esteem; he was appointed
private secretary to Queen Anne,
and after Charles's accession was
secretary to Queen Henrietta Maria.
He was knighted in 1613, and was
occasionally employed on em-
bassies. As a poet he was quad-
rilingual, and attempted to write
in Latin, Greek, French, and
English. His English verses arc
trifles tolerably well executed; they
have the air of being the literary
exercises of an accomplished cour-
tier, and display affectation rather
than genuine feeling. The most
interesting thing about them is that
they are written in elegant English,
not in Scots.
NATHANIEL FIELD (1587-1633)7
although the son of a famous
Puritan preacher and the brother
of a future Bishop of Hereford, left
Merchant Taylors' at an early age
to join the children of the Queen's
Revels. He became at once a
famous boy-actor, and played in
Jonson's Cynthia's Revels (1600)
and Poetaster (1601). Jonson was
grateful to Field for his good
acting, and read Horace and Martial
with him; Field, when he began to
write for the stage, took Jonson as
his model. Field's two plays were
probably both acted in 1610; A
Woman is a Weather- cocke is the
earlier of the two, as Amends for
Ladies is intended to be a kind of
palinode. Both plays are well-
constructed and full of admirable,
though somewhat boisterous,
humour. Field rose to be the most
eminent actor of his day, and his
plays show an actor's eye for
stagecraft. He collaborated with
Fletcher and Massinger; The Fatal
Dowry was published (1632) as by
Field and Massinger. In his latter
days he became pious.
SIR JOHN BEAUMONT (1583-1627)
was a brother of Francis Beaumont
(q.v.)> and was educated at Broad-
gates Hall, Oxford. He entered the
Inner Temple, but abandonee! the
study of law when the untimely
death of his elder brother in 1605
made him head of the family. He
spent most of his life quietly at
Grace-Dieu, Leicestershire, but was
patronized by the Duke of Buck-
ingham, and was created a baronet
in the year previous to his death.
In 1602 he published The Meta-
morphosis of Tobacco, a pleasant
enough mock-heroic poem; his
principal work, however, was col-
373
APPENDIX
lected posthumously and published
by his son in 1629, under the title
of Bosworth Field, with a Taste of
the Variety of other Poems. Bos-
worth Field itself is somewhat tame,
but it is written in heroic couplets
of surprising smoothness, and doubt-
less played its part in establishing
the ascendancy of that metre. The
volume contains some good sacred
poems. Beaumont's magnum opus.
The Crown of Thorns, in eight
books, is lost.
GEORGE SANDYS (1578-1644) was
the seventh and youngest son of
Edwin Sandys, Archbishop of York,
and was educated at St. Mary Hall,
Oxford. In 1610 he started on his
travels, and visited Turkey, Egypt,
Italy, and other countries; his
account of his travels, an admirable
and popular book, appeared in
1615 with the title The Relation of
a Journey begun an. Dom. i6ro. In
1621 Sandys was appointed treas-
urer of the Virginian Company
and went to America, where he was
appointed a member of the council,
remaining ten years in the country.
His translation of Ovid's Meta-
morphoses (published 1626) was
mostly written in Virginia, and was
the first literary work of any con-
sequence done in America. It is
a good rendering, but is sometimes
spoilt by attempting to adhere too
closely to the original. Sandys had
a good ear for metre, and kept
strictly to the rules of prosody.
Sandy s's later works are of a
sacred character- Paraphrases upon
the Psalms (1636), Christ* s Passion
(1640), and A Paraphrase of ihe
Song of Solomon (1641). In these
poems the accomplished metrist is
to be ccen no less clearly than the
pious colonist.
JOHN TAYLOR (1580-1653), usu-
ally known as the " water-poet "
was a native of Gloucester, and,
after failing to acquire a proper
amount of Latin grammar, was
apprenticed to a London waterman,
He was pressed into the .navy, and
was at the taking of Cadiz, under
the Earl of Ksscx, iu 1596; for
many years he was collector of the
wine dues exacted by the lieutenant
of the Tower of London. He after-
wards kept a tavern, first at Oxford,
and then at Westminster, lie was
a well-known " character " of his
day, and was patronized, half in
jest, by many eminent men, from
King James downwards, lie ar-
ranged the water-pageant at the
marriage of Princess Elizabeth in
1613. llis pieces to the number of
sixty-three were published in a
folio volume in, x(>30, but he was
the author of over one hundred
and fifty publications, both in
prose and verse, lie frequently
performed journeys under odd con-
ditions for ii wager; in :i6i8 he
walked from London to Braemar
without any money, and iu 16:1:9
rowed from London to Queen-
borough iu a brown-paper boat,
whose oars were caues with stock-
fish tied to them. His booklets
deal with a vast variety of: subjects,
' +r /
from TIw Life, and Dcalh of ihe
Virgin Mary^ to An. Arrant Thief
and The Hellish Parliament. The,
Pennykss Pilgrimage > celebrating his
Scottish trip, is perhaps his best-
known work. His crude prose and
doggerel verse scarcely rank as
literature, but they have a certain
rough vigour, und are of some
interest to antiquaries.
THOMAS MAY (1595-1650) was
born in Sussex, and educated at
APPENDIX
379
Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge,
where he graduated B.A. in 1612,
He was one of Ben J orison's
" sons ", and in 1620 or thereabouts
wrote two more or less I'onsonian
plays, The Heir and Thc Old
Couple. lie also wrote three
classical tragedies, painstaking hut
quite lifeless, and obviously imi-
tations of Scjanus and Cat i line- -
shadows of a shade, lie is better
remembered for his translation
(1627) and continuation of Lueun;
his continuation he translated into
excellent .Latin hexameters. lie
also translated Tlie Ccorgics and
some Martial. May had hopes,
which were not fulfilled, of suc-
ceeding his literary * ( father " in
the semi-ot'lieial laureateship; cither
owing to disappointment or for
sonic other reason, he was a sup-
porter of the Parliament during the
Civil War, and in 1647 wrote an
official History of I he. Long l\irlht*
menf, a book which professed to
aim at studious impartiality, but
did not attain it. Throe" yeans
later May was choked by his night-
cap.
ROBERT DAVKNPCMT (//. 1623) was
at some time at sea, in what capacity
we do not know, nor do we know
anything else about him apart
from his literary work, hi 1633 ho
published two poems of no impor-
tance, " the one divine, the other
moral " His three extant; plays arc
King John and Matilda (printed
1655), -^ New Trick to cheat the
Dwell (1639), and The, City Niftht-
Cap (printed 1661), The iirst-
mimecl play is u resuscitation of
Munday and Chettle'fl Death of
Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, and it
has been suggested that (he two
comedies also contain old material.
The City Night-Cup is n romantic
and disagreeable play, based, upon
the Curious Impertinent: in thin
Oitixolc. A New Trick is pleasauter,
but of no great depth,
FtJLKK (U!!VIUK,
554i()28)wasbornnt Ueiiuehamp
Court, Warwickshire- He \var
educated at Shrewsbury, which he
entered on, the same 'day as Sir
Philip Sidney. The two hoys imme-
diately became firm friends, nor
was their friendship interrupted
when Sidney went to Oxford awl
(Jreville to Jesus College, Cam-
bridge. The two friends went to
court; together in 1577, and both
aequireda high place in the queen 1 :!
favour, (Jreville was forbidden to
travel as he wished to do, and wan
prevented from accompanying his
I'rioml on the expedition \\hieh
ended at '/utpheiu (Jreville was
essentially a statesman; he \\a,s
secretary for the principality of
Wales, and (t5<)8) treasurer of the
navy, lie wan created Knight of
the Hath in 1603 ami Lord Ifrookr
in ifm, after n\signin,ij the chaii-
eellorshii> of ^thc exchequer, \vhieh
he hud hekl for over six years, t!r
vvas stabbed by a servant, who wan
infuriated by his exclusion from
his will, atitl who committed ;uii
cide immediately after, (Jrevillc
lingered for a month, and died on
September. ifuH. !im u\u
ici, l\Iust(iphti and Ahilum,
\vhieh were not intended for tin*
stajj-o, arc altmmt forgotten;
a eollecUoji of u nonnets '*, only a
third of whieh art' tnio SCHUJHN,
eontaius belter \vork, (Jivville* IH
remeinl)end chiefly as Sitltu*\ *:i
friend and biographer, though hit.
l)i<)Kraphy wa not puhliHlunl' until
*>
3 8o
WILLIAM ROWLEY
is relegated to the Appendix of this
book not because his work is un-
interesting or unimportant, but
because it is so inextricably inter-
woven with that of other men. Little
is known of his life. Prior to 1610 he
acted in Queen Anne's company;
in 1613 his company became known
as the Prince of Wales 's. He joined
the King's servants in 1623, and
retired from the stage in 1627. lie
married in 1637, and is supposed
to have died before the outbreak of
the Civil War. Four extant plays
are said to be entirely the work of
Rowley, A Nczv Wonder, a Woman
never vexed] All's Lost by Lusl; A
Match at Midnight; and A Shoo-
maker a Gentleman. None of these
plays is of outstanding merit; and
Rowley owes his fame to his colla-
borations with Wilkins and Day,
with Hey wood, Massinger, Dekker,
Ford, and Webster, but especially
with Middleton (q.v.). Middleton
and Rowley were ideal partners,
and each had a good influence upon
the work of the other. The Change-
ling is their best play, Rowley was
probably in demand so often as a
collaborator because he had an
actor's knowledge of practical stage-
craft. His one prose tract, A
Search for Money (1609), gives an
amusing account, In, the vein of
Dekker, of contemporary London
life.
RICHARD BRQME (? d. 1652) wrote
fifteen plays which have been pre-
served, and some nine others which
have been lost. Very little is known
of his life, except that he was for
some years Jonson's " servant "
(probably his amanuensis; the idea
of Jonson having a valet is some-
what grotesque). Naturally Brome
APPENDIX
modelled his plays upon Jensen's;
his rivals, unable to resist 'the pun'
declared that: IJrome's comedies'
were the sweepings from Jonson's
study. Brome began to write for
the stage iu collaboration with
Jonson J s son, but their play, A
Fault in Friendship, has not been
preserved. IJrome's best plays are
The Northern Lass and A Jovial
Crew, or ihe Merry 7fr%wr, the
latter was the last play acted before
the closing of the theatres in 1642.
Their vivid portrayal, of manners is
the most valuable feature of Bronte's
plays, lie was a gentle and modest
man, not intended by nature to
wield the savage weapons of a
satirist, and might have written
better plays if lie had not been
overridden by the forceful per-
sonality of his master.
THOMAS NABHKS (?i6os ?i(>45)
was a " sou ", or perhaps rather"u
would-be son, of Jonsou's. 1 le was
educated at Kxeter College, Ox-
ford, and seems to have spent
much of his life in Worcestershire.
His tragedies arc bad, his comedies
fair, and his masques (so called)
good. His comedies are Covcnt
Garckn (1632), Tottenham (Jourt
(1633), and The llride (1638),
realistic plays of London or subur-
ban life, undistinguished by bril-
liance, but untainted by coarseness.
Nabbes's best work is, perhaps, to
be found in his i{ Moral! Maske ",
Microcosmus. In 1638 he wrote a
continuation of Knollcs's Gcncrall
Historic of the Titrkes.
WILLIAM CART WRIGHT ( 1 6 1 1-
1643) was the son of a Cirenccster
innkeeper, and was educated at
Westminster and Christ Church,
Oxford. He was renowned both as
APPENDIX
a scholar and later on as a preacher.
He did not write any plays after
taking holy orders, so that his four
somewhat perfunctory plays must
have been written before 1638,
when he was ordained deacon.
Three of them are extravagant and
not attractive tragi-comedies (The
Lady Errant, The Royal Slave, and
The Siege); the fourth is a Jon-
sonian comedy of some merit, The
Ordinary (1635), which borrows
many features from The Alchemist.
Cartwright, who died young, was
considered by his contemporaries
a kind of Admirable Crichton, but
neither his plays nor his poems,
mostly occasional, justify this repu-
tation.
SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT (1606-
1668), son of the proprietor of the
Crown Inn, Oxford, and Shake-
speare's godson, was educated at
Magdalen College School and Lin-
coln College, Oxford. He entered
the service of Fulke Greville, Lord
Brooke (q.v.) and began his career
as poet and playwright after the
murder of that nobleman. His
early plays include The Platonick
Lovers (1636) ; The Wits (acted
1633, published 1636), his best
comedy; Love and Honour (? 1634);
The Fair Favourite, and The Un-
fortunate Lovers (1638). In 1638
he was chosen to succeed Jonson
as semi-official Poet Laureate. He
was an active Royalist, and was
knighted by Charles I at the siege
of Gloucester (1643). Afterwards
he was confined in the Tower,
where he completed his respectable
but wearisome poem Gondibert
(published 1651). In 1656 he
produced a semi-public and quasi-
dramatic show, The First Dayes
Entertainment at Rutland House.
This was followed by The Siege of
Rhodes (1656), virtually an opera;
The Cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru
(1658), and The History of Sir
Francis Drake. After the Restora-
tion he established the Duke's
Theatrical Company, and produced
several original plays as well as
some adaptations of Shakespeare.
Like Janus, D'Avenant looks before
and after; backwards to Fletcher
and the Elizabethans, forwards to
Dryden and the Restoration drama-
tists. He is a very mediocre poet
and a second-rate dramatist, but is
of importance in stage if not in
literary history. He had much to
do with the reopening of the
theatres, the rise of opera, the in-
troduction of women-actors, and
the elaboration of scenery and
stage effects. His dramatic works
have been edited by J. Maidment
and W. H. Logan.
JASPER MAYNE (1604-1672) was
a Devonshire man, and was edu-
cated at Westminster and at Christ
Church, Oxford, where he had a
distinguished career, culminating
in a D.D. degree in 1642. He held
two college livings, from both of
which he was ejected during the
time of the Commonwealth. After
the Restoration, Mayne was rein-
stated in his livings and appointed
Archdeacon of Chichester and
chaplain in ordinary to the king.
His writings consist of a poor
tragi-comedy, The Amorous War; a
lively comedy, The City Match
(1639); some verses of little im-
portance; and an admirable trans-
lation of Lucian. The City Match
is a clever adaptation of Jonson^s
farcical masterpiece, Epicoene; it
is amusing, but it is so close an
imitation that it is not entitled to
APPENDIX
much praise on the score of
originality.
SHACKERLEY MARMION (1603-
1639) belonged to an old North-
amptonshire" family, and was edu-
cated at Wadham College, Oxford,
where he graduated M.A. in 1624.
He went campaigning for a time in
the Low Countries, settled clown
to the life of a more or less dis-
reputable man of letters in London,
joined Suckling's troop of horse in
the Scottish expedition of 1638,
and died at York early in 1639.
Marmion was one of Jonson's
" sons ", and makes his sonship
clear in his three not very remark-
able comedies Holland's Leaguer
(1632), A Fine Companion (1633),
and The Antiquary (1636). The
last named is the best; the anti-
quary, Vctcrano, is a cleverly con-
structed Jonsonian puppet. Mar-
mion's poem Cupid and Psyche has
merit.-
HENRY GLAVTIIORNE (fl. 1639)
was the author of five rather poor
plays, and is otherwise unknown.
The plays are The Hollander (1635),
a not too bad romantic comedy;
Wit in a Constable (1:639); '^ IC
Ladies Privilege (1640); Ar gains
and Parthenia (1639), a pastoral
founded on Sidney's Arcadia] and
Albertm Wallmstein (1:639). The
last-named play is more interesting
in its choice of subject than in its
execution, as it was produced ,
than five years after Wal
assassination. Glapthornc/j not,
as far as we know, one of Jonson's
sons, but he owed a certain debt to
Jonson. The 1874 reprint of Glap-
thorne's plays is as poor a specimen
of editing as the plays themselves
are of dramatic composition.
WILLIAM LITINJOW (1:582 ^1645)
was born at Lanark and educated
at Lanark Grammar School, lie
started on his extensive travels
while quite a young man, being
urged on partly by his natural
Wanderlust and partly by an un-
fortunate love-ull'iiir, which cost
him his ears. He travelled at
various times through Europe, the
Levant, Egypt, and Africa, and
claimed to have covered thirty-six
thousand miles, mostly on foot, in
nineteen years. It is almost un-
necessary to say that he had
innumerable adventures, meeting
with storms and shipwrecks, land-
thieves and water-thieves, and be-
ing racked and hung up by the big
toes by the Inquisition at Malaga.
Lithgow's chief work is The. Tot all
Discourse, of the 'Rare Adventures and
painful Peregrinations of long nine-*
fcene YaareS) which was published
in 1632 (a first draft, much shorter,
appeared in 1614). It is si most
valuable and interesting book in
spite of its euphuistie style (hi-
stead of " eyewitness " he writes
*' ocular testator "), but it is valu-
able for the information it contains,
not as literature, A reprint ap-
peared in 1906, Lithgow's poems,
^jflta* Pilgriwes Farewell, &e., are
^(^interesting, but not as poetry,
LIST OF AUTHORS
(Names in italics are to be found in the Appendix)
Alexander, Sir William,
Earl of Stirling, 175.
Andrewes, Lancelot, 373.
Ayton, Sir Robert, 377.
Bacon, Francis, Viscount
St. Albans, 196.
Barnes, Barnabe, 371.
Barnfield, Richard, 370.
Beaumont, Francis, 235.
Beaumont, Sir John, 377.
Breton, Nicholas, 374.
Brome, Richard, 380.
Browne of Tavistock, Wil-
liam, 284.
Burton, Robert, 325.
Camden, William, 367.
Campion, Thomas, 166.
Cartwright, William, 380.
Chapman, George, 208.
Chettle, Henry, 373.
Constable, Henry, 80.
Corbet, Richard, 289.
Coryate, Thomas, 376.
Cotton, Sir Robert Bruce,
37S-
Daniel, Samuel, 87.
D'Avenant t Sir William >
381.
Davenport, Robert, 379.
Davies, Sir John, 95.
Davies of Hereford, John,
164.
Day, John, 204.
Dekker, Thomas, 221.
Deloney, Thomas, 109,
Donne, John, 292.
Dray ton, Michael, 177.
Drummond of Hawthorn-
den, William, 276.
Dyer, Sir Edward, 82.
Earle, John, 337-
F air fax, Edward, 368.
Felltham, Owen, 304.
Field, Nathaniel, 377.
Fletcher, Giles (the elder],
369.
Fletcher, Giles and Phi-
neas, 187.
Fletcher, John, 235.
Florio, John, 159.
Ford, John, 352.
Fraunce, Abraham, 370.
Glapthorne, Henry, 382.
Greene, Robert, 15.,
Greville, Fulke, Lord
Brooke, 379.
Hakluyt, Richard, 53.
Hall, Joseph, 105.
Harington, Sir John, 369.
Harvey, Gabriel, 371.
Haughton, William, 372.
Hay ward, Sir John, 375.
Herbert of Cherbury , Lord,
332.
Heywood, Thomas, 228.
Holland, Philemon, 373.
Hooker, Richard, 74.
James VI and I, 102.
Jonson, Benjamin, 249.
Knolles, Richard, 376.
Kyd, Thomas, 48.
Lithgozu, William, 382.
Lodge, Thomas, 23.
Lyly, John, i .
Markham, Gervase, 371.
Marlowe, Christopher, 34.
Marmion, Shackerley, 382.
Marston, John, 217.
Massinger, Philip, 315.
May, Thomas, 378.
May ne, Jasper, 381.
, Meres, Francis. 770
MIddleton, Thomas, 306.
Montgornerie, Alexander,
68.
Munday, Anthony, 372.
Nabbes, Thomas, 380.
Nash, Thomas, 29.
Overbury, Sir Thomas,
301.
Peele, George, 9.
Porter s Henry, 372.
Prynne, William, 346.
Purchas, Samuel, 376.
Raleigh, Sir Walter, 272.
Randolph, Thomas, 348.
Rich, Barnabe, 368.
Rowley, Samuel , 374.
Rowley, William, 380.
St. Albans, Viscount. See
Bacon.
Sandys, George, 378.
Selden, John, 340.
Shakespeare, William, 115.
Shakespeare Apocrypha,
152.
Sharpham, Edward, 374.
Shirley, James, 361.
Southwell, Robert, 85.
Speed, John, 375.
Stany hurst, Richard, 367.
Stirling, Earl of. See
Alexander.
Stubbes, Philip, 372.
Sylvester, Josuah, 368.
Taylor, John, 378.
Tourneur, Cyril, 323.
Warner, William, 62.
Watson, Thomas, 64.
Webster, John, 260.
Wither, George, 281.
Wotton, Sir Henry, 287